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[ Page U ] 








The Mystery 
of the Third Parrot 

Relates how a mystery that baffled the New York 
City police gave an eminent psychologist 
an opportunity to test his skill 


By MARVIN DANA 

Author of The Lake Mystery 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1924 




Copyright 
Marvin Dana 
1924 

Published April, 1924 
Copyrighted in Great Britain 



Printed in the United States of America 


APR 30 ’24 


©C 1 A 800214 


0 - 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Man on the “L”. i 

II A Terrible Discovery.. ... 16 

III A Strange Predicament. 24 

IV At Police Headquarters... .. 33 

V The Girl Tells Her Story. 46 

VI What the Parrots Said. 57 

VII The Architect Speaks.. 67 

VIII A Startling Revelation. 77 

IX Farnham’s Despair. 87 

X A Message from the Dead. 103 

XI Farnham Explains. 115 

XII A Perplexing Situation. 125 

XIII An Attempted Solution. 134 

XIV An Unexpected Enemy. 142 

XV An Attempted Murder. 155 

XVI At Headquarters. 169 

XVII 1 What the Doctor Found. 179 

XVIII The Parrot’s Message. 193 

XIX Goshkoff Shows His Hand. 200 

XX The Man in the Launch. 212 

XXI The Doctor’s Discoveries. 224 

XXII A Valuable Clue. 238 
























Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIII Another Mystery.. 252 

XXIV A Clue from the Sea. 263 

XXV The Secret Pool. 270 

XXVI The Fight in the Storm... 283 

XXVII The Arm of the Law. .......... « 292 








The Mystery 
of the Third Parrot 





The Mystery of the Third 
Parrot 

CHAPTER I 

THE MAN ON THE “l” 

D OCTOR CARNEY regarded with lively in¬ 
terest the man seated immediately in front 
of him on the elevated train. The attention of 
the eminent psychologist had been arrested by an 
abrupt, violent shuddering movement of the fel¬ 
low’s shoulders, neck and head. His first thought 
had been that here was an epileptic about to have 
a fit. But the tremor ceased as swiftly as it had 
begun, and it was not repeated. There remained, 
however, a visible rigidity, which provoked Car¬ 
ney’s curiosity. He was impressed by the fact that 
here before him was presented something directly 
in his own particular line of study — an emotional 
state of extraordinary tensity. It seemed evident, 
too, that the stress of feeling thus expressed by 
the body was wholly due to an internal source, 
since there was no apparent cause of excitement 
from without. The train was lumbering placidly 
uptown; now, between stations, the few persons 
in the car were quiet, staring vaguely at the dull 


2 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


panorama of upper-story windows, or glumly 
scanning the comics of evening papers. 

Doctor Carney felt his professional skill as a 
psychologist baffled in this instance, since he could 
not even guess a cause for the stranger’s emotional 
mood. Vanity was piqued by inability to form 
any reasonable surmise in explanation of the case 
thus unexpectedly presented for examination. His 
absorption was such that he quite forgot the ex¬ 
plicit instructions of the physician whom he had 
just visited. The medical authority, who was also 
a personal friend of his patient, had spoken 
plainly: 

“You have been under too great a strain. This 
course of lectures at the university has worn you 
out. You need complete rest. Go away for a 
time, and forget that there is such a thing as 
psychology. Don’t think of emotions or mental 
processes, not even your own.” 

“But what shall I do, then?” the psychologist 
had demanded. 

“Anything that requires no thought,” the 
physician had answered. He regarded his bache¬ 
lor friend quizzically. “You might fall in love.” 

But Carney shook his head. 

“No, for I should certainly try to analyze both 
my feelings and those of the unfortunate woman.” 

“And that would be fatal,” the physician as¬ 
serted. “ But, seriously, you must try for a time 



The Man on the “L” 


3 


to lose interest in human beings; you must give 
up trying to take them apart in order to see how 
they work. Forget your own inner processes as 
well. Get into the country, and climb mountains, 
swim, ride — in short, live for a season in your 
physical sensation, not in your mental.” 

Carney nodded in understanding. 

“The lectures came to an end today,” he said. 
“I’ll turn myself loose in the wilderness some¬ 
where, and for a few months try living like an 
animal, so far as I can manage it.” 

“And remember,” the physician warned again, 
“don’t permit yourself a thought about human 
emotions, either yours or another’s.” 

“ I’ll be as beastly as possible,” the psychologist 
promised with a rueful grin. 

Now, hardly fifteen minutes after leaving the 
physician’s office, Carney was thrilling over the 
problem presented by the man seated in front of 
him. His mind was eagerly seeking any plausible 
explanation for the stranger’s conduct. Indeed, 
one not a psychologist might well have been ab¬ 
sorbed in the spectacle offered by the fellow’s 
behavior. As the train rumbled on, the man 
turned little by little toward the window, as 
if moved by an irresistible force against all the 
power of his will. In the course of seconds, he 
had turned so far that the watcher behind him had 
a profile view of his face. 



4 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 

Carney, at the sight, felt his curiosity stimu¬ 
lated to new zeal. For the face was as that of one 
stricken. The features were distorted, yet held 
moveless under the thrall of a dominant emotion. 
Nevertheless, Carney felt himself powerless to 
interpret justly the significance of that rigid, tor¬ 
tured face. There was anguish in the expression, 
so much was obvious. But there was much more 
than anguish. Surely, rage was manifest, for the 
upper lip was lifted in a snarl. And, yes, ex¬ 
pectancy. Carney saw that the dilated eye stared 
fixedly, with something horrible in its scrutiny, at 
the flitting line of windows bordering on the track. 
Suddenly, a nervous convulsion racked the man’s 
form. The lifted eyelid drooped, until only a slit 
showed the pupil blazing, as the head was bent 
forward spasmodically, as if toward a closer view 
of something horrible and mysterious out there 
beyond the window pane. In the same instant, 
the jaws were clamped together, and, even above 
the clamor of the car trucks, Carney could hear 
the furious grinding of the teeth. Carney could 
not hear any sound of words as the man’s lips 
writhed, but he knew that the muttering was of 
curses, since only curses could harmonize with the 
ferocity of the man’s face in that moment. 

An instant longer so; then, somehow, there 
came a change. Now, despair was subtly shown, 
a suggestion of terror, a hint of the conscience- 




The Man on the “L” 


5 


stricken, as the eyelid fluttered, the jaws un¬ 
clenched. The rigidity fell from the features, the 
whole form sagged, the face turned from the 
window. 

It was evident that the crisis of the man’s mood 
had passed. The psychologist still found himself 
completely at a loss for any possible explanation. 
Even during the time when he held his gaze stead¬ 
fastly on the contorted face before him, he had 
included within his vision the shifting scene beyond 
the window. But there had been nothing startling 
in that vista, surely nothing to terrify, or to in¬ 
furiate. On the contrary, there had been nothing 
save the rows of windows, vulgar and sordid, uni¬ 
formly placid. As the train slowed for the next 
station, Doctor Carney closed his eyes in an effort 
to visualize the memory concerning that bleak 
procession of windows stalking past. Not one had 
offered aught that seemed in any way remarkable. 
There had been no trace of anything dreadful, 
not even of anything in the least bizarre. There 
wa9 not a detail sufficiently distinctive to stand 
forth in his recollection. Stay! There flashed a 
solitary vivid bit of coloring in the drab panorama. 
It had been a parrot fluttering on a window ledge. 
The memory of it stirred Carney to a new wonder. 
For the knowledge was borne in on him that the 
window in which that parrot flaunted itself had 
been directly opposite at the very crisis of the 



6 The Mystery of the Third Parro ? 

stranger’s mood. Moreover, it seemed to the 
psychologist in some vague way that there had 
been a touch of strangeness about that bird of 
brilliant plumage. But his memory sought in vain 
for any explanation of this impression. 

As the train jolted on its way, Carney opened 
his eyes for another look at the cause of all this 
mystery. - The seat before him was empty. A 
glance about the car failed to discover the man. 
It was evident that the fellow had left the train 
at the station just passed. Doctor Carney sighed 
dejectedly. The incident was closed. The mys¬ 
tery of it all must forever remain a mystery.^ 

Thus Carney assured himself. But, though he 
deemed the incident closed, it still dominated his 
thoughts. The mystery occupied his consciousness 
to the exclusion of all eke, as he left the train at 
Eighty-sixth Street, and went to his apartment on 
Central Park West. It maintained an aggressive 
control of his mood still when he was comfortably 
seated in his living-room, puffing a pipe, and gaz¬ 
ing unseeingly over the green expanse of the 
Park. He continued heedless of the physician’s 
counsel. Indeed, he had quite forgotten himself in 
concentration on the curious happening of the 
afternoon. 

The psychologist was primarily a thinking ma¬ 
chine. His body was below the average in stature, 
frail almost to the point of attenuation. The head, 



7 


The Man on tht -E” 


however, was disproportionately large, with the 
looming forehead of extraordinary intellect. The 
thinning brown hair lay lankly beyond the exposed 
temples. The face was thin, the skin itself clear, 
with a touch of hectic color on the cheek bones. 
He wore a mustache clipped short, at which from 
time to time he gnawed futilely through force of 
old habit. The nose was thin and slightly hooked 
— questing, not predatory. The eyes bulged a lit¬ 
tle, and this effect was emphasized by the thick 
bifocal lenses of the spectacles which he always 
wore. The eyes were clear, gray, brilliant indices 
of the restless mentality at the back of them. Left 
in possession of a modest fortune by the death of 
his parents while he was still in the university, the 
young man had chosen the life of a student, and 
for nearly a score of years had devoted himself 
especially to psychology, until he was recognized 
as an authority in this field. He had worked hard 
and unremittingly: he had achieved much. He 
especially prided himself on the coldly logical ex¬ 
actness of his mental attitudes. He had delved 
into occultism, he was familiar with the claims of 
telepathy, clairvoyance and spiritualistic phenom¬ 
ena, but he held himself resolutely aloof from any 
credulousness. He refused to accept as fact any¬ 
thing not capable of scientific demonstration. Such 
restraint often taxed his will severely, for he was 
by nature impulsive, prone to impetuous action 



8 The Mystery of the Third (Parrot 


under the spur of feeling. He had, however, mat.'/ 
it a rule to dissect his own emotional states, an<f 
by the understanding of them to bring them under* 
the control of reason. A favorite theory of his 
was that the essential oneness of man’s nature 
enabled him to discern within himself all the vaga¬ 
ries of human emotion. Thus, by a sort of dual 
consciousness, he was able by analysis of himself 
to learn with exactness. By understanding him¬ 
self, he understood others. Such introspection, 
alas! is always dangerous, and it had at last 
wrought its ill effects on Carney to such an extent 
that his appetite had come to be a flimsy fraud, 
and his intermittent sleep a procession of night¬ 
mares. Hence his visit to the physician, who had 
prescribed the brainless activities of a sportive ani¬ 
mal. And behold the prescription already forgot¬ 
ten, as the psychologist huddled in his easy 
chair, blinking blindly at the verdant reaches of 
the Park, while his thoughts raced in search for 
any shred of explanation concerning the curious 
behavior of the stranger in the train. 

Of a sudden, the tumult in Carney’s mind was 
stilled. In place of confusion came an absolute 
calm. It was, for a few moments, as if his mind 
were wholly empty, with no thought whatever 
present in consciousness. Then, in another in¬ 
stant, an idea flashed there, an idea that was a 
conviction of truth. The psychologist considered 



The Man on the “L” 


9 


is conviction with amazement, almost with awe, 

jite unable to doubt its verity. It seemed to him 
n the instant of illumination that the mystery was 
revealed: The stranger in the train was a crim¬ 
inal, tortured by emotions due to looking again on 
the scene of his crime. 

After a brief interval during which he passively 
accepted the truth of this idea, Carney aroused 
himself to examination of his own mental state. 
He analyzed and reasoned concerning his convic¬ 
tion, and, much to his relief, analysis and reason 
afforded justification. He was certain that such 
solution of the mystery was by no means a hap¬ 
hazard fancy, not merely a theory which was the 
product of strained imagining, but instead a plaus¬ 
ible, logical explanation of all the facts known to 
him. He believed that the apparently vagrant 
mental activities had at last crystallized into the 
truth. And when he had finally determined the 
worth of the idea, Doctor Carney found himself 
suddenly beset by an impulse. This impulse was 
to test the truth of his conviction by a visit to the 
scene of possible crime. To be sure, the psycholo¬ 
gist prided himself on an orderly habit of life, 
in his various external activities as well as in his 
mental. He was wont to discipline himself against 
impulsive actions as wasters of energy. So, at 
the outset, he resisted this impulse. But it was 
one not easily denied; it clamored for expression. 



10 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


The doctor felt his will against it weakening 
moment by moment. Moreover, to support it, 
there came to him a thought of his own familiar 
teaching: that the repression of so strong an im¬ 
pulse was a dangerous thing, an offense against 
that harmony of body and soul which is the very 
essence of health. In the end, then, Carney justi¬ 
fied the impulse, even as he had justified the con¬ 
viction. He sprang out of his chair, clapped on 
his hat, left the apartment, and set off for the 
elevated station, stepping far more briskly than 
for many a day. He was at peace within himself. 
Had he not justified this extraordinary perform¬ 
ance by deliberate reasoning? As a matter of 
fact, the learned doctor had suddenly grown in¬ 
tensely human: he was all eagerness, led by a 
lively and tantalizing curiosity, off on an absurd 
questing into a mystery perhaps wholly of his own 
creation, into a crime that probably existed only 
in his own imagination. 

Carney left the elevated train at Fourteenth 
Street, which was the station where the stranger 
had vanished. He descended the stairs to the 
street, and walked down the west side of Ninth 
Avenue, with the intention of picking out, if pos¬ 
sible, the window on the opposite side of the street 
at which he had seen the parrot. He was sure 
that the building on which his interest centered 
must be situated about midway of the block. He 



The Man on the “L” 


11 


realized, however, that the elevated structure 
itself cut off his view of the upper stories, and he 
was compelled reluctantly to cross the street, 
where he sought to escape attention by walking at 
an average pace, with his head bowed, except for 
an occasional swift, roving glance upward. He 
experienced a definite pang of apprehension as he 
passed a policeman at a corner. He felt himself 
vaguely identified with crime, an accomplice after 
the fact. It was a comfort to him to recall his 
friendship with Deputy Commissioner Maxwell, 
a boyhood chum, whose interest in psycho-crimino¬ 
logical tests had brought him into contact with 
Carney frequently in recent years. The psycholo¬ 
gist determined then and there that, should he 
find anything in this hunt, he would straightway 
tell the whole tale to the police official. But, first 
of all, there must be the concrete evidence of a 
crime to justify a story so extravagant. Carney 
raised his eyes aloft yet once again. His gaze was 
caught and held by a fluttering of color high 
above. He stopped short and stared fixedly, for¬ 
getful of possible observers. It was perhaps for¬ 
tunate that the street was for the moment nearly 
deserted, so that none noticed his action. 

No mistake was possible. A moment of 
scrutiny sufficed to show that the parrot still 
moved restlessly to and fro on the sill of the top¬ 
most window in the house next beyond where Car- 



12 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ney was standing. His eyes ran over the front of 
the building, and found nothing remarkable. 
There was a tawdry shop on the ground floor. On 
one side of this stood an open door giving on a 
stairway. The psychologist allowed himself no 
time for hesitation, but marched resolutely into the 
hallway, and ascended the stairs, stepping firmly, 
with no attempt at stealth. He advanced up one 
flight, and then another, and finally a third, going 
briskly, no longer apprehensive or doubtful. As 
he reached the top floor, and faced toward the 
front of the house, he saw before him two closed 
doors, evidently opening on the two rooms into 
which the front was divided. At the stairhead, 
however, Carney abruptly halted as his ears were 
assailed by the noise issuing from the closed room 
on the left. The listener was at first confused by 
the din, which he could not understand. Then, 
presently, he became aware that the medley of 
raucous cries and shrieks came from parrots — 
certainly a number of them. The bird on the 
window sill was not the only one of its kind in 
the mysterious chamber. 

Carney still hesitated for a moment to find a 
pretext by which to excuse his intrusion, should 
there be an occupant of the room. He decided 
that it would be sufficient to inquire for a mythical 
Charlie Jones who had once lived at this address. 
Thus fortified, the psychologist went forward de- 



Tht Man on the “L” 


13 


terminedly, and knocked smartly on the closed 
door. The hubbub of the birds ceased for a few 
seconds, then broke forth afresh, with a new vigor 
of unintelligible guttural squawkings. There was 
no other answer. Carney rapped again, and 
waited. Then, sinee no response came, he beat 
a third time on the panels with loud insistence. 
When this demand for admission remained un¬ 
answered, he tried the door. There was no re¬ 
sistance, the door swung open at his touch, and 
he stood for a moment confused in the doorway, 
his eyes blinking at the bright light of the room 
after the dusk of the hallway, his ears deafened 
by the screaming of the parrots. The small room 
was revealed clearly by the light from the single 
window. On the sill, the parrot which had been 
visible from without was still fluttering, but Car¬ 
ney gave it only a glance, for his attention was 
drawn to the other birds, which were shut in cages 
hung at either side of the window. They kept 
up a nerve-racking din — articulation of a sort, as 
the listener guessed, though it sounded like a 
meaningless gibberish to his unaccustomed ears. 
He saw at first glance that the furnishings of the 
room were of the shabbiest, limited to bare neces¬ 
sity. There was a rumpled bed provided with 
frayed blankets, lacking sheets. A wobbly chest 
of drawers stood against the wall to the left of 
the window, facing the bed, with a cheap looking- 



14 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


glass fastened above it. A light stand against the 
wall at the left end of the room supported pitcher 
and bowl. In the free space between the door 
and window, a deal chair lay overturned. Just 
beyond it, a bird cage, with the door open, rested 
on the floor. It was evident that the parrot on the 
window sill had escaped from the cage. Carney 
looked more attentively at the third parrot, which 
scrambled awkwardly back and forth along the 
window-ledge, but made no effort to fly out, al¬ 
though the lower half of the window stood open. 
And now, at last, the psychologist found his atten¬ 
tion absorbed by this third parrot. It seemed to 
him that through all the vocal uproar of the other 
birds, which went on unremittingly, the parrot at 
the window remained wholly silent — or almost 
so. Carney thought that he could detect a few 
hoarse croakings, but he could not be sure. Then, 
as he peered intently, he perceived the fact: The 
tongue of the parrot had been cut out. It had 
been done recently, for the wounded stump 
showed raw and bloody within the gaping beak. 
The psychologist experienced a slight shudder of 
repulsion at sight of this mutilation. Instinctively 
he turned his eyes away. They rested on the 
space to the right of the window, which lay in 
shadow. He stiffened to a new horror. Crum¬ 
pled on the floor there lay the form of a man. It 
needed only a glance at the upturned face to know 



The Man on the “L” 


15 


that the man was dead. A second glance showed 
the cause of death, for a knife was thrust to the 

hilt in the man’s left breast.Doctor 

Carney had found the crime for which he searched. 




CHAPTER II 

A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 

I T WAS thus that the eminent psychologist, 
John Preston Carney, holder of many degrees 
and justly esteemed by the learned world, arrived 
at adventure. The life of the student hitherto 
had been a sheltered one, almost cloistered. He 
had studied, and he had taught, but his routine of 
living had moved within quiet scholastic circles. 
His emotional experiences had been of a vicarious 
sort. He had never labored under the stress of 
business conflicts, had never known physical strug¬ 
gle. His knowledge of life’s activities of a pas¬ 
sionate sort were rather academic than personal. 
A disillusioning love-affair of university days had 
left him with a very definite hostility toward any 
further romantic entanglement for himself. Crime 
had been to him a theoretical source of certain 
human emotions of psychological interest. It was 
a thing of vague reality with which he had had no 
personal contact, nor could have — until now. 

And now, in the twinkling of an eye, all this 
was changed. The little man stood gnawing 
fiercely at the bristles of his mustache, staring with 
distended eyes at the visible evidence of crime. 
16 


A Terrible Discovery 


17 


The dead body sprawled on the floor was a reality 
not to be denied. Here, indeed, was murder. 
The fact admitted of no doubt, for the force with 
which the mortal blow had been struck precluded 
the idea of suicide, as did the additional fact that 
the blade had been driven through the man’s but¬ 
toned coat. No, this was not suicide; murder had 
been done within the squalid room, probably 
without a witness, except for the three birds. Car¬ 
ney, regarding the blackened blood that had dried 
on the breast of the dead man, judged that the 
deed must be at least a day old. The corpse had 
lain there for a period of many hours, without 
having been discovered, in spite of the fact that 
the door was unlocked. The appearance of the 
chamber indicated that its tenant himself gave it 
such little care as it required. This might explain 
the fact that no servant had gained knowledge of 
the tragedy. Probably, too, the noise of the par¬ 
rots could be heard only faintly by other tenants 
in the building when the door was closed, and it 
was too familiar a sound to attract particular at¬ 
tention. As Carney thought of this, he felt a 
sudden perturbation lest the chattering of the birds 
just now should provoke curiosity on the part of 
some hearer, for he had left the door standing 
ajar. The idea aroused him from the state of 
stupefied immobility in which he had remained 
through many minutes. A terror of being found 



18 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


there alone with the corpse of the murdered un¬ 
known seized him. It was as if he himself were 
somehow guilty, an accomplice after the fact. He 
turned quickly and pushed the door shut. 

The action helped the psychologist to resume 
his accustomed poise, to think again with his usual 
clarity. At the passing of the first mood of hor¬ 
ror, there came a curious reaction that was almost 
like exultation. The little touches of hectic color 
high on his cheeks became more vivid; the gray 
eyes fairly sparkled behind the lenses; the nervous 
nibbling at the mustache ceased. A certain pride 
in his achievement caused him to straighten his 
shoulders, to hold his head a little higher. His 
analysis of the mood dominating the stranger on 
the train had been proven accurate. His own skill 
as a psychologist had been triumphantly demon¬ 
strated. The result of shrewd mental processes 
had been a clarification of his intelligence such 
that he had perceived the truth, had realized the 
precise significance of what he had observed, had 
understood the fact of a crime committed. Out 
of that understanding had sprung the impulse to 
track down the crime. It was from his obedience 
to this masterful impulse that he found himself 
here in the presence of the dead. The feeling of 
personal pride in his achievement thus far steadied 
Carney’s nerves, and brought him self-confidence 
in the gruesome situation. He set himself delib- 



A Terrible Discovery 


19 


erately to a study of the scene, in the hope of 
discovering any clues that might help to bring 
about a solution of the tragedy. He was aware 
that the law forbade any disturbance of the body 
except by duly constituted authority, but there was 
nothing to hinder his scrutiny of the setting for 
the crime. Yet, as his eyes roved the dingy room, 
the psychologist realized that there was little, if 
anything, in the surroundings to throw light on 
the cause of murder. Indeed, there was nothing 
visible to aid imagination. No garments hung on 
the row of hooks in the wall back of the bed. It 
needed only a glance about to show no trunk, or 
valise, or box, and there was no closet. It was 
evident that the occupant had domiciled himself in 
the place without so much as a change of clothing. 
A broken bit of comb and a fragment of soap 
rested on the washstand, along with a crumpled 
and grimy towel. It seemed that the tenant had 
had no baggage beyond the three parrots in their 
cages. Of these, the two that remained in re¬ 
straint still clamored unintelligibly, and the third, 
free on the window sill, still fluttered to and fro, 
its beak gaping in dumb effort to rival the cries 
of its fellows. Somehow, the frantic movement 
to and fro of the third parrot and the spasmodic 
opening of the beak, within which appeared the 
mutilated remnant of tongue, produced an un¬ 
canny effect on the observer. The bird’s dumbness 



20 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


was more dreadful than the ceaseless gutturals of 
the others. It was with a feeling of relief that 
the Doctor shifted his gaze from the parrot to 
the body of the murdered man. 

As his eyes moved from the window to the cor¬ 
ner, they caught sight for the first time of the 
victim’s cap, which was lying on the threadbare 
carpet beyond the head of the corpse. It was of 
cloth, having a turned-up brim, without visor. The 
headpiece had a faded, nondescript air, but it was 
unmistakably foreign. Following the direction of 
his thoughts, Carney turned his attention again to 
the body on the floor, and a look at the face con¬ 
vinced him that the man had been a foreigner, 
probably of Slavic blood. This was indicated by 
the snub nose with widely flaring nostrils and the 
high cheekbones. A suggestion of the Tartar was 
given by the eye-sockets slightly uptilted at the outer 
corners, but the eyes themselves, which stared 
with ghastly steadfastness at the cracked ceiling of 
the room, were blue. The remainder of the face 
was masked by a heavy beard, black and bristling. 
The hair of the head, too, was thick and straight, 
and grew low on the forehead. The body lay flat 
on its back, with arms outflung. The tips of the 
ears showed beneath the rumpled hair, and in the 
lobe of each was a plain gold ring, such as sailors 
of a former generation so often wore. The coat 
and trousers were of a cheap dark cloth, much 



A Terrible Discovery 


21 


worn. Coarse woolen stockings showed above 
the heavy shoes. Where the sleeves of both coat 
and shirt were pushed up on the right wrist, the 
marks of tattooing were visible, and from this, in 
connection with the testimony of the earrings, 
Carney was sure that the man had been a sailor. 
Then, finally, the psychologist overcame a natural 
reluctance, and fastened his gaze on the breast of 
the corpse, where the seeping blood from the 
wound had spread a rusty discoloration over the 
coat front, in the midst of which stood out the 
handle of the knife. This hilt, as Carney judged, 
was between four and five inches in length. It 
was of some hard black wood, deeply grooved 
throughout its length to insure a firm grip to the 
hand of a wielder, and with a knob at the top and 
another at the base, from which the blade ex¬ 
tended. This lower knob was sunk in the cloth of 
the coat from the force with which the fatal blow 
had been delivered. The blade itself was invis¬ 
ible, hidden within the flesh which it had violated 
and done to death. Carney was able to make out 
that the workmanship on the handle of this knife 
had been of a rude sort. The grooving was done 
unevenly, evidently wrought not by an artisan, but 
by one who fashioned a weapon for his own use. 
Certainly, Carney mused, a knife thus distinctive 
must afford a clue to the perpetrator of the crime. 

There sounded a light tapping on the door. 



22 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Carney faced about, then stood motionless in sud¬ 
den fear. It was suddenly brought home to his 
consciousness that his own situation was of a com¬ 
promising sort. It would be difficult to explain 
his presence there with the body of a murdered 
man. His account concerning an extraordinary 
interest in the emotions of the stranger on the 
elevated train, concerning subsequent analysis and 
concerning a strong impulse driving him to this 
particular place — the detailed account would in¬ 
deed sound too fantastic for credence by any ordi¬ 
nary hearer. Too late, Carney regretted his tarry¬ 
ing on the scene of crime. He realized that he 
should not have delayed here, but should rather 
have hastened away to notify the proper authori¬ 
ties. He could have visited his friend, the deputy 
commissioner, could have told the story to the 
official without embarrassment. Now, it was too 
late: discovery was at hand. The knocking on 
the door was repeated, a little more loudly, more 
insistently. Then, while the Doctor still remained 
motionless and silent in frightened doubtfulness as 
to his course of conduct, the knob was turned, and 
the door opened gently. On the threshold stood 
a woman—a girl rather, for the slender grace of 
the form and the delicate freshness on the face 
belonged to the early twenties. Carney stared 
blankly at the apparition, held dumb not only by 
his own predicament, but also by stark amazement 



A Terrible Discovery 


23 


at the incongruous aspect of the newcomer. For 
the girl did not harmonize with this environment. 
There was nothing tawdry or coarse about her, 
such as might have been expected of a visitor here. 
On the contrary, she was unmistakably a lady, one 
of birth and breeding. The fact was witnessed 
not only by the smart cut of the tailored suit she 
wore and the trig hat, but by the proud poise of 
the body, the haughty carriage of the head, by 
the level gaze of the blue eyes that rested inquir¬ 
ingly on Doctor Carney’s face. The girl’s lips 
moved as if she were about to voice a question. 
Even in his perturbation, the psychologist noted 
with a little thrill the delicate beauty of her mouth. 
But the words of interrogation were not uttered. 
It seemed as if, suddenly, the evil spell of the 
place touched her spirits. She shuddered, and 
her eyes left the Doctor’s face, passed beyond him 
to the sprawled figure on the floor. They dilated 
as they fell on the upturned face of the dead man. 
In the next instant, a strangled cry broke from 
her. The blood flowed out of her face; she 
drooped slowly; then, before the startled psychol¬ 
ogist could stir to aid her, she toppled to one side 
and lay unconscious. 



CHAPTER III 

A STRANGE PREDICAMENT 


HE need for secrecy directed Carney’s first 



1 instinctive action. He stepped forward 
hastily, and pushed shut the door, which in closing 
barely swung clear of the girl’s prone form. Then 
he looked down at the white face, and for a 
few moments stared helplessly, feeling himself 
impotent in the face of such catastrophe. A pan¬ 
icky impulse of flight beat upon his consciousness, 
but he resisted it. To leave the stricken girl 
alone in this evil place was a thing impossible to 
a nature both kindly and chivalrous. Yet, he was 
completely at a loss as to what course he should 
pursue in circumstances so dangerous. To call for 
help must result in that publicity which he was 
most anxious to avoid — not only for his own sake 
now, but also for the sake of the girl. He could 
not doubt that, whatever had been the cause of 
her coming to the scene of tragedy, she was inno¬ 
cent of any complicity in the crime itself. A single 
glance at her face was sufficient to know her 
purity. At last, however, Carney’s confusion 
quieted, and he began to think more clearly. It 
occurred to him that the only safe procedure 


24 


A Strange Predicament 


25 


would be in restoring the girl to consciousness and 
afterward in assisting her to escape unobserved 
from the premises. He went to the washstand, 
where a little water remained in the pitcher. Car¬ 
ney soaked his handkerchief in this, and, return¬ 
ing to the girl, knelt by her, and bathed her fore¬ 
head. Leaving the wet cloth across the brow, he 
chafed the wrists and hands, one after the other. 
Even in this time of anxiety, he noted with keen 
appreciation the exquisite formation of these 
hands with the delicate tapering fingers. They 
were the perfectly kept and unblemished hands of 
one who had never toiled. They were, indeed, so 
exceptionally beautiful that the Doctor marveled 
at them, and felt almost as if he were profaning 
this loveliness by the brisk rubbing with his own 
coarse palms. Presently, he exhaled a sigh, partly 
of relief, partly of apprehension as to what might 
next befall, for the girl’s white lids lifted slowly, 
and the blue eyes looked up steadfastly into the 
face bent over hers. It seemed, at the outset, that 
consciousness returned slowly, without memory of 
the shock that had struck her down. Her gaze 
was calm, untroubled. It was evident that she 
received an impression of confidence in this 
stranger who ministered to her. She spoke 
faintly, with a note of appeal in her voice: 

“What is it? What has happened? I do not 
understand.” 



26 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Doctor Carney let go the girl’s hand, took the 
handkerchief from her forehead and replaced it in 
his pocket, as he answered soothingly: 

“ You were a bit overcome for a moment. You 
will be all right very soon. Just rest quietly a 
little longer, and I’ll help you to get home.” 

The serenity vanished from the girl’s expres¬ 
sion. Confusion succeeded, next alarm. Fear 
sounded in her voice when she spoke again. 

“I set out to visit Andrieff. I came to the 
house, to the number that had been given me. 
The street door was open.” Her voice faltered in 
the telling, as if she groped blindly in a memory 
that escaped her. “ I went up a flight of stairs, 
and another, and another. I knew that the room 
of Andrieff was at the top in front. I reached the 
door, I knocked. Yes, I knocked—there was no 
answer. I tried the door; it was not locked: I 
opened it. I stepped forward, and looked about. 
I saw a man standing there, who looked at me 
without speaking. There was something strange 
about the way he looked at me. Somehow, it 
made me afraid, though not of him. But I felt 
something—horrible. Ah!” Full memory 
surged back. The final exclamation was a gasp 
of terror. Again, the eyelids fluttered and fell. 
The girl had fainted for the second time. 

Doctor Carney heaved a sigh that was half of 
exasperation, but he was no longer flustered. He 



A Strange Predicament 


27 


took the handkerchief from his pocket, and re¬ 
dampened it in the pitcher with a methodical pre¬ 
cision that usually characterized his actions as well 
as his mental processes. He repeated his bathing 
of the girl’s forehead, and afterward renewed his 
chafing of her wrists and hands. He was im¬ 
pressed anew with the loveliness of these fingers, 
tipped with rosy nails that were bordered with 
delicate transparent cuticle never coarsened by 
the scissors of a manicurist. Then, while he still 
rubbed briskly, the psychologist studied the face of 
the girl. Now that the eyes were closed, he could 
give critical attention to the other features, and he 
found them almost flawless, with their regularity 
of contour emphasized by the complexion of 
creamy white. The adjective occurred to him as 
especially appropriate because, through the pallor 
of her swoon shone a faint golden radiance. The 
hue of the skin seemed to reflect in some slight 
degree the tints of the blond hair which was wholly 
golden. Carney felt himself fascinated by the 
beauty of the young woman, and again he began 
to wonder as to the influence that had brought one 
of her type to a place so incongruous, to the scene 
of murder. But his speculations were interrupted 
by a flutter of the girl’s eyelids, which warned of 
returning consciousness. He laid her hands down, 
and, at the slight movement of his body in so do¬ 
ing, jabs of pains in his knees reminded him that 



28 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


the floor was hard — hard for her, too, he re¬ 
flected. Thereupon, he slipped off his coat, rolled 
it, and, gently lifting the girl’s head, slipped the 
garment underneath to serve as a pillow. As he 
finished, and remained kneeling and looking down 
at her, her eyes opened. She gazed at him for a 
few moments blankly, then memory crashed upon 
her. Her pupils dilated, then dulled under a film 
of fear. She raised her hands, and clapped them 
over her face as if to shut out the dreadful vision. 
Her lips moved. Carney bent lower, but the 
words were meaningless to him, of a language 
strange to his ears. He desired to soothe her dis¬ 
tress, but knew not how. “ There, there,” he mur¬ 
mured, and repeated the word again and again 
as to a child. He felt the futility of his effort, but 
could contrive nothing better. Yet, his monot¬ 
onous crooning had its effect. The insistence of 
the sound penetrated to the girl’s consciousness 
and made her aware of the man’s presence, so that 
presently she put down her hands, and regarded 
him intently from eyes in which terror still lurked. 
Her gaze was inquisitorial, though in no way sus¬ 
picious. Evidently, she had no distrust of this 
stranger whose kindliness was apparent in both 
his acts and his expression; she did not deem him 
guilty of any part in the tragedy. Her glance went 
for a moment from Carney to the birds jabbering 
in their cages, and afterward to the third parrot 



A Strange Predicament 


29 


fluttering on the window sill. She seemed to listen 
to the cries of the caged two, then shook her head 
as if to stop her ears against the noise, and her 
eyes fastened again on the face of the psychologist. 

“Andrieff is dead,” she said softly in English 
that was perfect, though perhaps overly precise 
in pronunciation. There was a little catch in her 
voice as she went on speaking: “He has been 
killed. It was done by the Bolsheviki. You are 
not of them — no! ” 

“No,” Carney agreed hastily, “I am not of 
them.” And he added, rather absurdly: “I am 
not a Russian — not even a parlor socialist.” 

“No,” the girl repeated musingly, “you are 
not of them. You do not kill and rob. I think 
you are a good man.” 

“At least, I do not live a life of crime,” the 
psychologist asserted, somewhat embarrassed by 
the girl’s naive pronouncement as to his goodness. 
He made a little backward gesture with his head. 
“ That was Andrieff ? ” 

The girl shuddered, but answered bravely 
enough: 

“Yes, that was Andrieff. He was our serv¬ 
ant — mine now, for I am the only one left. He 
had our trust, and he deserved it. He has been 
killed because he would not betray it. I have lost 
wealth, since of course they would have robbed 
him. He died in defense of his duty. I have lost 



30 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


more than jewels. I have lost a faithful servant.” 

Abruptly, a change came over her expression. 
She raised herself to a sitting position on the floor, 
and regarded Carney with new curiosity. Under 
her survey the Doctor felt his embarrassment in¬ 
crease, and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, 
but her eyes did not leave his face as she addressed 
him again. The childlike, intimate note was gone 
from her voice: she spoke with the half-insolent 
air of a personage who condescends to question 
an obtrusive inferior. “But who are you, sir? 
What is your business with Andrieff, living or 
dead? Are you, by any chance, of the police?” 

Carney shook his head vigorously. He was 
anxious to disassociate himself from the scorn in 
her voice as she pronounced the word “police.” 
But it occurred to him that anything apologetic 
in his manner, or indeed any attempt at explana¬ 
tion on his part just now, might well provoke sus¬ 
picion, especially since the bald facts in a truthful 
narrative would be likely to strain credulity. It 
would be better, he thought, to assert himself as 
if his conduct needed no excuse, better to assume 
a masterful air as if there could be no question as 
to the propriety of his motives or actions. So, he 
continued briskly: “No, I have no connection 
with the police, no official standing whatsoever. 
My connection with this sad affair has come about 
solely through a curious combination of circum- 



A Strange Predicament 


31 


stances, which I shall explain to you at another 
time. At present, the need is to get you away 
from this place, to your own home. I shall be 
glad to escort you, to help you in every way pos¬ 
sible. Do you think that you could stand up 
now with my assistance?” 

The girl nodded. She accepted unhesitatingly 
the temporary domination of this stranger. Aided 
by Carney, she got to her feet, and stood waiting 
a little shakily, with a supporting hand against 
the wall, while the psychologist picked up his coat 
and put it on. He retrieved also his handkerchief, 
which had fallen to the floor when the girl first sat 
up. But, as he stepped to the girl’s side, and 
placed his hand under her arm, preparatory to 
leaving the room, the two of them were startled 
by the sound of quick steps in the passageway out¬ 
side. They halted at the door, and a brisk knock 
followed. The two within the room looked at 
each other in dismay. The psychologist experi¬ 
enced again the feeling of panic; the little flush 
that had come into the girl’s cheeks faded out, and 
her eyes widened in fright. Neither stirred or 
spoke. It was the thought of both that their only 
hope of escape from painful entanglement in the 
tragedy lay in silence. It was possible that the 
visitor, receiving no answer to his knock, might 
go away in the belief that the room was empty. 

The knocking was repeated. The man and the 



32 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


girl, motionless, held their breath in suspense. 
The person outside beat for a third time on the 
panels, more loudly now, peremptorily. A gasp 
issued from the parted lips of the girl as she saw 
the knob of the door turning. The psychologist, 
too, saw and with difficulty stifled a groan. Both 
realized that their escape undetected was no longer 
possible: they were fairly caught in the trap of 
tragedy. Then, at last, the door was swung wide, 
and a man loomed in the opening. Doctor Carney 
had time to note that this stranger was tall, broad- 
shouldered, unburdened by superfluous flesh, and 
that the face was young and attractive, graced 
with an expression of lively intelligence. The 
grey eyes were shining with excitement, and the 
man’s emotion thrilled in his voice, as he now 
spoke with restraint, in an evident effort to hold 
the tones steady: 

“ I have found you! ” 

Before the brief phrase was ended, the girl 
had slipped free from Carney’s hold, had cast 
herself within the ready arms of the man, who 
held her closely to him, and stared over her head 
challengingly at the psychologist. 



CHAPTER IV 

AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS 

I N self-defense, against the accusation in the 
young man’s eyes, Carney stared back defiant¬ 
ly. The situation had swiftly developed a feeling 
of hostility between the two, which was increased 
on the part of the psychologist by a vague con¬ 
sciousness of having been deserted by the girl, who 
had fled from him to the protection of the stranger. 
He knew that this was natural enough, since he 
himself was unknown to her, while the other man 
was an acquaintance at least, if not something 
nearer and dearer. He condemned his chagrin 
as absurd in the circumstances, but he felt it none 
the less. 

A diversion came through a fresh outburst of 
noise from the caged parrots. The young man’s 
gaze shifted from the psychologist to the birds, 
and he scowled in manifest annoyance at the din. 
Then his eyes were caught by the fluttering move¬ 
ment to and fro of the third parrot on the window 
sill. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, after a moment, “that 
fellow is dumb. He’s had his tongue cut out. 
There’s only a raw stump left.” He glanced again 
33 


34 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 

at Carney. “Is that some of your work?” he 
demanded. 

The psychologist answered quietly and with dig¬ 
nity: 

“I am not a mutilator of animals. I am not 
even an assassin.” He moved a little to one side, 
so that he no longer stood between the newcomer 
and the dead man lying on the floor. 

The action was so significant that the young 
man’s gaze was attracted at once to the gruesome 
object. His face whitened a little as he beheld the 
corpse, saw, too, the handle of the knife standing 
out above the breast in mute witness of the crime. 
As he looked intently, a sudden emotion contorted 
his features, and his lips opened as if he would 
speak. But he choked back the words, his lips 
drawn close in a determined line. Since he made 
no comment, after a brief interval, the older man 
spoke again: 

“ Murder has been done here as you can see. 
The victim, I understand from this young lady, is 
known to her as Andrieff. The condition of the 
blood that has oozed from the wound shows that 
the crime was committed hours ago. I myself ar¬ 
rived here, just before the coming of the young 
lady.” 

The young man spoke, with suspicion in his 
voice: 

“ Why did you come ? ” 




At Police Headquarters 


35 


“I shall explain everything to you both,” the 
psychologist said briskly. “ But this is neither the 
time nor the place. Our first duty is to help this 
young lady home; our second, to notify the au¬ 
thorities of the murder.” 

“ Yes,” the girl agreed, “ I wish to go. It is too 
dreadful here. Besides, there is nothing here now 
for me: Andrieff is gone, for he is dead; and the 
jewels are gone—that was the reason he was 
killed. Yes, let us go.” While speaking the girl 
had withdrawn from the young man’s supporting 
arms, and she now stood drooping a little, but 
firmly enough. 

At mention of the jewels, Carney felt a new 
thrill of interest, since here was introduced a mo¬ 
tive for the crime. He deemed it discreet to make 
no comment, but his thoughts were busy. The 
young man, however, immediately became active. 
He went to the body, knelt beside it, and ran his 
hands over it. His action moved the coat a little, 
and thus brought into view a small leather-bound 
book lying on the floor close to the right hand of 
the corpse. The searcher did not touch it. This 
could not be the repository of a treasure in jewels. 
But at sight of the volume the girl spoke, with a 
note of sadness in her voice: 

“ It is Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels . He was 
always reading it.” 

“There is nothing else here,” the young man 



36 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


announced, getting to his feet. He made a round 
of the room in rapid search. The work was brief, 
since there was only the single drawer of the wash- 
stand as a receptacle. The thin, hard mattress, 
which he examined, permitted no concealment of 
a bulky parcel. The threadbare carpet likewise 
could hide nothing, nor could the cages of the 
birds, and there was no other possible hiding place. 
It was plain that the jewels, if such were ever here 
in this unlikely spot, had been carried off. 

“Nothing anywhere here,” the young man said 
at last, with a conviction shared by both his hear¬ 
ers. He returned to the girl’s side, and took her 
arm. “Let us go,” he said. 

The three went out of the room silently, and 
Carney, coming behind the other two closed the 
door of the chamber softly with a sigh of relief. 
There was no one about as they went along the 
passageway, and descended the first flight of stairs. 
But as they came to the head of the second flight, 
a door at the back opened, and a slatternly woman 
looked out. She seemed to recognize the young 
man, for she peered at him closely, and addressed 
him with the easy familiarity of her sort: 

“ My, the Rooshan would have had a party, if 
he’d been home. But I know he wasn’t. He 
hain’t come in today. I can tell because he stamps 
so in them heavy boots of his’n. Nor he didn’t 
come in last night. He hain’t been here since you 



At Police Headquarters 


37 


called yistiddy, Mister.” 

The three had halted before the woman’s gar¬ 
rulous outburst. At her concluding words, the 
young man’s face took on an expression of be¬ 
wilderment. 

“ You are making a mistake — I was not here 
yesterday; in fact, never before in my life.” He 
made the denial emphatically. 

The girl started violently, and looked up at the 
speaker with a puzzled expression. But the face 
of the frowsy woman hardened, and her next 
words came viciously: 

“I don’t know your game, Mister, but I do 
know you’re a dirty liar.” With that explicit com¬ 
ment, she went back into her room, and slammed 
the door shut. 

The three went on their way silently, and 
reached the street without any other encounter. 
They moved slowly southward, looking for an 
empty cab, which presently appeared. 

“I shall take the elevated,” Carney explained 
as the other two got in. “As soon as I get home, 
I shall telephone full information to a friend of 
mine, Deputy Commissioner Maxwell. It is a 
little late for introduction,” he continued whim¬ 
sically. “ However, I am Doctor Carney,” and he 
added his address. 

“ The psychologist! ” the young man exclaimed, 
and a sudden friendliness softened his features. 



38 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“I have read some of your books. They are 
splendid.” The older man warmed visibly under 
the praise. 

“I am glad you found them of interest,” he 
said. Then his face grew serious again. “And 
now for your part of the introductions.” 

“This young lady is Miss Vera Daniloff, a 
young lady who has only recently reached here 
after a flight from Russia. I myself am Edward 
Farnham, an architect. But I shall see you soon 
again. Now, the first need is to get Miss Dani¬ 
loff home. The address is 9 A West Eleventh 
Street.” 

Carney repeated the address to the chauffeur, 
then lifted his hat in salutation as the cab moved 
away. And in that same moment there came to 
his ears in the clear tones of the Russian girl her 
words to Edward Farnham: 

“Why did you say that to the woman? You 
were there yesterday — I myself saw you and 
spoke to you.” 

The words rang in Carney’s consciousness as 
he hurried on his way to the elevated station, and 
they remained as a problem during the journey 
northward and the walk across to his apartment. 
But, try as he would, he could find no satisfac¬ 
tory explanation. It seemed evident from the 
Russian girl’s words that this young man, Farn¬ 
ham, had, in fact, lied to the woman who had 



At Police Headquarters 


39 


accosted him in the hallway. Why? The girl’s 
question to him and her statement had been in 
the nature of an accusation. It was not to be 
doubted that the two were well acquainted; it was 
highly improbable that there could have been any 
mistake on her part as to his identity, and she 
had declared positively that she both saw him and 
spoke to him the preceding day at the house where 
the murder had occurred. So, Carney felt him¬ 
self convinced that the young architect had indeed 
uttered a falsehood when he denied to the woman 
lodger in the house his former visit to the place. 
Why had Farnham made this denial? The un¬ 
truth created a presumption of guiltiness. Yet, 
Carney was unable to regard this new acquaintance 
as the possible murderer; he could not even associ¬ 
ate him indirectly with the crime. Cold reason de¬ 
creed that he should view Farnham with suspicion, 
but logic was powerless against a warm liking that 
had developed in him toward this companion in 
the tragical adventure. Again, impulse held sway 
over the psychologist. He liked Farnham instinc¬ 
tively; he believed him innocent. For the second 
time that day Doctor Carney surrendered himself 
to the leading of what he felt was an intuition of 
truth — an intuitive perception superior to those 
powers of ratiocination on which hitherto he had 
so prided himself, a perception not to be distorted 
by mere circumstances. 



40 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 

Thus, with a surprising self-satisfaction from 
this new triumph over that despotic sway of rea¬ 
son to which he had so long been subject, Carney 
entered his apartment and went to the telephone, 
where he called up Maxwell at Police Headquar¬ 
ters. To that astonished official, he gave a brief 
outline of his activities during the afternoon. 

“ But what took you there ? ” The deputy com¬ 
missioner demanded. 

“Just an impulse,” was the answer, “but an im¬ 
pulse fortified and justified by precise reasoning 
along psychological lines.” 

“Fortified and justified!” Maxwell spluttered. 
“Any desk sergeant would put you in a cell for 
that, and the judge would keep you there.” 
The official went on speaking very seriously. “ To 
tell you the truth, John, your story sounds fishy— 
so extremely fishy, in fact, that I am inclined to 
believe it. Anyhow, the poorest sort of a liar 
could concoct something more plausible. Besides, 
I know that you are mildly crazy. I ought to send 
a man after you on the jump, and have you jailed 
as a material witness, with a possible charge of 
murder to follow. For old friendship’s sake, 
however, I’ll be remiss for the present in the dis¬ 
charge of my duty, on condition that you come 
straight down here to headquarters. This is, ac¬ 
cording to your own account, a murder case. 
Therefore, it requires more than a casual chat 



At Police Headquarters 


41 


over the telephone to straighten it out.” 

“But—” Carney would have protested. 

The voice of the deputy commissioner inter¬ 
rupted crisply, the tones charged with authority: 

“Please, come at once, John.” The click that 
came over the wire indicated that the command 
was final. 

Carney, in his turn, hung up the receiver glumly. 
He realized suddenly that his adventuring into 
crime was not to be, so to speak, all beer and 
skittles. Hitherto, throughout the afternoon, he 
had been carried along buoyantly by excitement, 
and the experience, in spite of its gruesome fea¬ 
tures, had been pleasurable rather than otherwise. 
It had projected into his somewhat drab existence, 
as a thinking machine, a vivid color of emotion, 
which was none the less thrilling because that 
color was the crimson of crime. Now, however, 
he was confronted with prosaic, perhaps painful, 
consequences. He had no relish for personal pub¬ 
licity of this sort, only a violent distaste for being 
involved in police and court proceedings. He was 
not alarmed over the prospect of terror to him¬ 
self in connection with the crime, but he was dis¬ 
mayed at the possibility of being made to appear 
ridiculous in the eyes of the world for the whim 
that had carried him to the scene of tragedy. He 
sighed heavily as he set forth once again. His 
sole consolation lay in the. fact that Maxwell was 



42 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


his friend. The deputy commissioner would be¬ 
lieve his statement however much it might tax the 
credulity of police sergeant or judge; and the au¬ 
thority of that official would be exerted in his be¬ 
half— exerted so strongly, Carney dared hope, 
that, after all, this innocent excursion into crime 
might not prove a catastrophe. 

The event justified his hope, at least for the 
time being. In the session at headquarters, he re¬ 
lated painstakingly every detail of the affair. His 
friend was not oppressive, but he was thorough in 
quizzing. At times, too, the official forgot friend¬ 
liness, and fell into the blustering police manner. 
Carney resented this, but held himself in restraint 
by strong effort of will, and the badgering was not 
long continued. Naturally, Maxwell was eager 
to learn everything possible concerning the man in 
the elevated train whose display of emotion had 
set the psychologist in quest of the crime. Car¬ 
ney’s assertion that this must have been the assas¬ 
sin was received by Maxwell without comment. 
But that the accusation was at least tolerated be¬ 
came clear from the official’s later questioning. 

‘‘Would you know the man if you were to see 
him again?” 

“Of course,” Carney declared. “The fellow 
made a profound impression on me, and I studied 
him intently. I should recognize him again in¬ 
stantly.” 



At Police Headquarters 


43 


“ Describe him,” Maxwell commanded. 

“Why, he was—” The psychologist halted in 
confusion. He found himself at a loss as to just 
how to begin his description. Maxwell eyed his 
friend sourly. 

“Tall, short; fat, lean; blond, swarthy; white, 
black; American, foreigner — tell me something, 
anything! ” he barked. 

“ He was dark, with black eyes,” Carney an¬ 
nounced, clutching at a straw of recollection. 

“Whiskers?” 

“ Smooth-shaven.” 

“Nose?” 

“ He had a snub nose, with flaring nostrils. I 
distinctly noted how they quivered with the play 
of his emotions.” 

“Gold in his teeth?” 

Carney shook his head. 

“I didn’t see — I only heard him grinding 
them.” 

“That helps of course,” Maxwell remarked 
with heavy sarcasm. “Now, what about his 
clothes—what sort of a hat?” 

“ I think it was a soft black hat,” the psycholo¬ 
gist ventured doubtfully. 

“You don’t know?” 

“I looked at his face,” was the apologetic re¬ 
sponse. 

“His clothes, then?” 



44 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“ I have an impression that they were dark, but 
the impression is vague.” 

“ I believe you,” the deputy commissioner 
snapped, with a snort of disapproval. Then he 
continued more gently: “Now, tell me, John, 
wasn’t there anything distinctive about this chap — 
anything that I could send out in a description 
to the police that would help them to identify him ? 
Did he have a cauliflower ear, or a broken nose, 
or a scar on anywhere visible? I can’t set the 
force to nab anybody they may hear grinding his 
teeth. Rack your memory, John. Wasn’t there 
something? ” 

Carney was silent for a few seconds as if ran¬ 
sacking recollections, but the apparent effort was 
only a sham. He felt himself guiltily conscious 
of the fact that he could not name a single distinc¬ 
tive feature of the man whom he believed to be 
a murderer. At last, he shook his head in confes¬ 
sion of inability. 

“ But I’d know him again if I saw him,” he re¬ 
peated stoutly. 

“Go home, John,” the deputy commissioner 
directed. “ But don’t leave the city. Your end of 
it promises little. I have hopes of better results 
from that architect and the Russian girl.” 

Carney remembered that he had failed to men¬ 
tion the words he had heard spoken by Miss Dani- 
loff to Farnham in the taxicab. He felt again his 



At Police Headquarters 


45 


own guiltiness at the omission, but he made no 
effort to correct it, and went on his way somewhat 
crestfallen over his poor showing thus far in the 
investigation, yet still secretly elated over this 
most unexpected and startling contact with crime. 



CHAPTER V 

THE GIRL TELLS HER STORY 


HE influence of Maxwell was exerted in be- 



1 half of Doctor Carney to such an extent that 
he was subjected to little inconvenience at the 
hands of the police authorities in connection with 
the murder of Andrieff Fomin. The psychologist 
was duly questioned by various officials, but it was 
evident that he was not suspected of any partici¬ 
pation in the crime itself. This was partly due to 
the attitude of the deputy commissioner toward 
him, but, too, his extraordinary narrative was 
credited in a spirit of tolerance. It was easy for 
the prosaic police mind to accept as possible, even 
probable, vagaries of conduct on the part of a 
psychologist that would have been scoffed at on the 
part of an ordinary citizen. Indeed, Carney him¬ 
self became aware that the officials of the depart¬ 
ment with whom he was brought into contact re¬ 
garded him, in some degree at least, with good- 
natured contempt. They classed him as a “ high¬ 
brow” whose head was in the clouds — clouds 
which, in fact, had penetrated until their vapors 
overlay his wits. He squirmed over the ignominy 
of being thus ranked as merely foolish by these 


46 


The Girl Tells Her Story 


47 


incompetent judges. He comforted himself to 
some extent by the reflection that the facts had 
justified his erratic behavior since he had actually 
trailed the crime. 

It seemed, in truth, that the investigation by the 
police could do little toward solving the mystery 
of the murder, and bringing the assassin to jus¬ 
tice. The testimony of the Russian girl, Vera 
Daniloff, supplied a motive, but failed wholly in 
any hint as to the identity of the criminal. She 
was carefully questioned, but her testimony con¬ 
tained no information of value, except a descrip¬ 
tion of the jewels. Farnham, also, was interro¬ 
gated, but his evidence contributed nothing of im¬ 
portance. Throughout the proceedings, Carney 
maintained silence as to what he had overheard 
said by Miss Daniloff to Farnham in the cab. 
Moreover, he said nothing concerning the declara¬ 
tion of the woman tenant in the Ninth Avenue 
house that Farnham had visited the premises on 
the day preceding the discovery of the murder. 
The psychologist realized how damning this evi¬ 
dence against the architect must appear, and he 
suppressed it in obedience to an impulsive belief 
in the young man’s innocence. A like reticence was 
maintained by both the Russian girl and Farnham 
himself. 

The accidental association of the three with the 
crime of itself established at once a certain in- 



48 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


timacy of relationship. Their common interest 
in one another on this account was augmented on 
the part of each by a spontaneous liking for the 
others, a mutual confidence and sympathy, which 
tended to establish friendship. On the day fol¬ 
lowing the first meeting, Carney was again touched 
by impulse, to which he yielded without the slight¬ 
est effort at logical justification. So, he journeyed 
down to Eleventh Street to call on Miss Daniloff, 
whom he found at home in a tiny and somewhat 
bare apartment, under the chaperonage of a stolid 
old Russian woman. This servant and duenna 
spoke no English, but she was efficient, for she 
ushered the visitor into the parlor, muttered gut- 
turally, and left him to await the coming of her 
mistress. 

The psychologist looked about him with curi¬ 
osity, ready to heed any significant impression. At 
the outset, he received a thrill that was almost a 
shock. For his ears were assailed by the jargon 
grown familiar in that squalid room where he had 
come on the corpse of the slain man. The two 
noisy parrots hung in their cages on either side of 
the single window, and he presently perceived on 
the opposite wall the third cage, in which was the 
mutilated parrot. The sight of it held the observ¬ 
er’s attention in a sort of horrid fascination. The 
creature was dumb, but it seemed always striving 
to voice its cry, perhaps of despair, perhaps of 



The Girl Tells Her Story 


49 


hate, perhaps of accusation. The beak gaped 
widely to show the root from which the tongue 
had been lopped. Suddenly, there flashed on the 
psychologist the thought that the ruthless hand 
which had severed the bird’s tongue had likewise 
plunged the knife into the heart of the bird’s 
master. And after this thought followed another, 
a keen wonder: Why? 

If the assassin had indeed troubled thus to 
silence the squawking of a bird, it must have been 
for some momentous reason, other than a mere 
nervousness over noise. Besides, there was the 
fact that the other parrots, vociferous as they 
were, had suffered no hurt. Was it that this third 
parrot spoke phrases fraught with significance? 
Did the assassin fear betrayal by the parrot’s 
gabbling? Or was some other vital concern threat¬ 
ened by the bird’s tongue? It might be that the 
work of mutilation had been carried out by some 
person other than the murderer—perhaps by An- 
drieff himself before he was struck down. Car¬ 
ney’s brain whirled in a maze of confused 
speculations. He felt an impulse to credit the 
final fancy, that Andrieff himself had inflicted 
dumbness on his pet. But why? The sound of 
the opening door interrupted his thoughts. He 
turned to find Vera Daniloff advancing toward 
him, smiling, her hand outstretched. 

There was a cordial handclasp between the 



50 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


two and friendly greeting. Each felt an instinctive 
liking for the other, and the extraordinary cir¬ 
cumstances of their previous meeting naturally 
established between them a relationship, which, at 
the outset, was of a sort more intimate than would 
have been possible had they encountered each 
other in conventional surroundings. At once, after 
greeting her guest, the Russian girl silenced the 
two clamoring parrots by covering the cages. 
Then she seated herself, and motioned Carney 
to an opposite chair. In answer to his question, 
she explained that the police authorities had 
granted her request for possession of the birds, 
since no relative of the murdered man had ap¬ 
peared to claim his meager possessions. 

“ I greatly wish also to have the Book of the 
Gospels, which was there by Andrieff in that aw¬ 
ful place. But the officers said that it must be re¬ 
tained by them during the investigation. I should 
like it as a souvenir of Andrieff. It will probably 
be given to me bye and bye.” 

“I don’t see,” Carney commented, “how the 
Gospels can be of use in solving the mystery of 
this crime, any more than the parrots themselves.” 

Vera shrugged her shoulders, and the expressive 
blue eyes widened a little as if in disdain. 

“ But there is not a mystery,” she declared. 
“The fact concerning the killing of Andrieff is 
very simple.” 



The Girl Tells Her Story 


51 


“ You mean, he was slain in order to get posses¬ 
sion of your jewels.” 

“ Exactly. And there is little chance of finding 
this thief and assassin. I do not believe he will 
be discovered nor do the police.” 

“If it would not be too painful to you,” the 
psychologist suggested, “ I should like very much 
to know the story — your own story, I mean, that 
led at last to this tragedy.” 

The girl threw out her hands in a wide gesture, 
and when she spoke again after a little pause, her 
voice had hardened. Her precise English was 
crisp, facile, but always slightly stilted after the 
manner of speech for which the training has been 
tedious and exact. 

“ It is a story in which there is now no novelty 
for us Russians. My family was well-to-do, even 
wealthy. The property was seized or destroyed by 
the revolutionists. All the members of my family 
except myself were put to death. My old nurse, 
herself a peasant, was able to hide me. It was she, 
too, who was able to carry our jewels out of the 
house before it was burned. My father had 
brought them from the bank some weeks before, 
meaning to take them with him out of the country. 
Andrieff was nurse’s brother. When I was con¬ 
cealed in their cottage, it was unavoidable, of 
course, that Andrieff should know of my presence 
there. But there was no danger in this, for he 



52 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


was loyal to the family. He had gone as a sailor 
while still only a boy, and had spent most of his 
life at sea. But, between voyages, he often came 
back to see his sister, of whom he was very fond. 
It may be that his long periods of absence pre¬ 
vented him from being fully sympathetic with the 
feeling of the revolutionists. At the first outbreak 
in our country, nurse told me that Andrieff said he 
cared nothing as to who might rule the land. But 
he was a gentle and kindly man, in spite of his 
rough life, and he was sickened by the red ruth¬ 
lessness of the Bolsheviki. He came to hate them 
for their bloodthirstiness, their savage slaughter 
of the helpless. So, he was eager to help me 
against them in any way that he could, both for 
his sister’s sake and for my own. 

“ Nurse had her savings, enough to pay our way 
out of the country. I fled with her in disguise as 
her niece. But it was deemed safer to leave the 
jewels with Andrieff, for him to carry to America, 
where we were to meet. There was not money 
enough to pay for the journeying of all three, so 
he was to make his way to a port, and there secure 
a berth as sailor, and eventually reach New York 
harbor. Nurse and I reached Switzerland — the 
journey was a nightmare of horror. Then nurse 
fell ill and died. I buried her there, and still had 
enough money, and a little more, to get to New 
York. I crossed the ocean in the steerage. A 



The Girl Tells Her Story 


53 


cousin of nurse’s lived here, and I carried the ad¬ 
dress. I found her, and, as she was alone, she 
was glad to share these rooms with me. 

“ But I did not go to her first after reaching 
New York. Instead, I visited the post office, for 
Andrieff, if he succeeded in reaching here, was to 
send me word addressed Poste Restante 

“The General Delivery,” Carney interpreted, 
to fill a little pause in her narrative on the part 
of the girl. 

Vera nodded assent, and went on speaking: 

“I called there every day, month after month, 
in vain. Then, at last, there was a letter. Andrieff 
had escaped to this country. But he warned me 
that enemies were on his trail, and that he must 
use every precaution to escape being trailed by 
them. He gave me an address, however, and set 
a time for me to go to the place.” 

“The address was that of the house where we 
met?” Carney questioned. 

“Yes,” Vera replied. 

“And the day of your visit was the time set 
by Andrieff, of course.” 

But the girl shook her head. 

“No,” she answered. “The time set by him 
was the preceding day.” 

Carney was greatly astonished, and he expressed 
his feelings frankly. 

“ Why did you delay, even for a day ? I should 



54 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


think, after all those months of waiting, you would 
have been prompt.” 

The delicate, slightly pale face of Vera flushed, 
and the clear blue eyes drooped before the open 
curiosity with which the psychologist regarded her. 
For the first time her speech was faltering. 

“ But I did hasten — indeed, I did,” she as¬ 
serted. “ I went to the house the day before, but 
I did not see Andrieff. I saw—” She broke off 
in confusion. Suddenly, recollection flashed on 
Carney. He remembered the girl’s words to 
Farnham in the cab. It was obvious enough that 
she had encountered him on the occasion of her 
first visit to the house. Her next remark set him 
to wondering anew. “Anyhow, I was informed 
that Andrieff was away that day, so I did not go 
to his room. I returned home, and went again 
the next day, as you know.” 

Carney discreetly withheld comment. It seemed 
plain that the girl had encountered the architect 
at the Ninth Avenue house, and that the young 
man had been her informant as to the absence of 
Andrieff. The fact became of peculiar signifi¬ 
cance in view of Farnham’s positive denial of his 
presence, which he had made in response to the 
slatternly woman’s claim of recognition. The psy¬ 
chologist realized that here was evidence to jus¬ 
tify the worst suspicion against the young man, 
and he realized as well that to offset such sus- 




TKe Girl Tells Her Story 


55 


picion he had only his liking, quite unsupported by 
reason. 

The doctor’s train of thought was abruptly in¬ 
terrupted by Vera. The traces of confusion had 
passed from the girl’s manner, and she exclaimed 
with a lightness that seemed genuine enough, as 
if she had relegated serious concerns to the back¬ 
ground for the time being: 

“But enough of that, Doctor Carney, for, in 
very truth, I have spilled an earful.” 

“Eh?” queried the psychologist dazedly. 
Where before he had been astonished, he was now 
astounded. The unheralded shift from refined 
speech to a vulgarism struck him like a blow. 
“You said-?” 

“I said that I had spilled an earful,” Vera re¬ 
peated, and there was pride in her voice. “You 
have heard the expression, is it not so?” 

“I have heard it — yes,” Carney admitted, 
without enthusiasm. 

“ It is an idiotism,” the girl continued. “ I have 
learned it quite recently.” 

The psychologist’s knowledge of French helped 
him. 

“Idiotisme. That is the French word, but the 
English equivalent is idiom.” 

The Russian accepted the correction, gratefully. 

“Thank you, my dear Doctor. Such mistakes 
Sire easy to me, since French is familiar and 




56 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


English is strange. My speech in your tongue is 
stiff. So it is that I am anxious to improve it by 
using phrases I hear in going about your city. 
Now, ‘ spill an earful ’ is so American, so what you 
call snappy—it is not?” 

“ Perhaps it is,” Carney conceded. He was 
minded to suggest caution in this matter of adopt¬ 
ing the slang of the moment, but the girl went on 
speaking before he had decided how to begin his 
admonition. 

“ I am very eager to acquire fluency in English. 
I am so hampered at present. It is as if I were a 
dumb woman. Ah, you should hear me in Rus¬ 
sian. Then I am able to talk freely, to voice every 
thought without restraint. That is much nicer. I 
am a woman, and no woman likes a fetter on her 
tongue.” 

“But your English is admirable,” came the 
protest 

The girl shrugged her shoulders, and the beauti¬ 
ful hands moved in a gesture of rejection. 

“You should hear me in Russian,” she insisted. 
“ It is then that I am really myself.” 

The psychologist shook his head as if in refusal 
to credit her assertion. But within the minute he 
was to have proof that she had spoken the truth. 



CHAPTER VI 

WHAT THE PARROTS SAID 

T HE door opened, and a man entered the 
room. Carney had just time to notice that 
the newcomer was slender, of medium height, 
with a smooth-shaven mobile face, when his at¬ 
tention was distracted by the conduct of Vera. 
And now he began to appreciate what she had so 
recently told him, for the girl was transformed 
on the instant of this visitor’s appearance. She 
sprang to her feet, and her face was flushed and 
radiant as she advanced with outstretched hands, 
while she fairly babbled greetings in her native 
tongue. Her eyes had deepened, had become 
more lustrous; her lips were curved tenderly in a 
smiling happiness. There was a vivid joyousness 
in the movements of the lithe form, in the tones 
of the voice. The woman who had suffered was 
gone: in her stead was a girl, care-free, merry, 
all vivacity. As the newcomer held her hands in 
his, and spoke briskly whenever she gave him op¬ 
portunity, she showed herself tremulously, dain¬ 
tily eager with the happy abandon of a child. Yet, 
for all her absorption in the coming of this guest, 
she did not forget her manners nor Carney. She 
57 


58 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


interrupted herself after a moment to turn toward 
the psychologist. 

“This,” she explained, “is my friend, Boris 
Goshkoff, Doctor Carney. He has been kind to 
me here. More, he is a Russian! Now, I speak 
my own language for a minute, if you will ex¬ 
cuse me.” She turned again to her compatriot, 
who, having bowed courteously to Carney, again 
listened attentively to the girl’s lively speech. The 
two seated themselves on a couch, and maintained 
an animated conversation, which the psychologist 
could not understand so far as the words were 
concerned, though it made clear to him what Vera 
had said of herself. She was, indeed, wholly dif¬ 
ferent from what she had seemed only a few sec¬ 
onds ago when talking English. Though he had 
failed to perceive it at the time, she had been con¬ 
strained by the less familiar tongue. Now, she 
was free. She was able to express herself un¬ 
hindered. But, beyond this liberty, there was, the 
Doctor knew, a deeper cause for her mood. This 
Russian brought with him a native atmosphere, re¬ 
membrance of former gladness, a souvenir of 
home, that was like wine in the blood of this girl 
who had been so stricken by fate, who found her¬ 
self alone and desolate in a strange land. 

Then, as he continued watching the two, Carney 
began to wonder if perhaps a third cause con¬ 
tributed to the girl’s emotional state. Was she 



What the Tarrots Said 


59 


influenced to some extent, perhaps even chiefly, by 
a feeling more subtle and more dominant even 
than that of affection for home and the speech of 
her home land? Did love stirring in her heart set 
this maiden thus a-thrill with life? Was it rap¬ 
ture in the presence of a lover that so glowed in 
her eyes, that so fashioned the lips to exquisite 
smiles, that so sounded of music in the rapid modu¬ 
lations of her voice? Reason insisted that this 
simple explanation was the right one. Neverthe¬ 
less, the psychologist found himself hesitating to 
accept it. It occurred to him that this Russian girl 
was of a type hitherto unknown to him, a type 
temperamentally versatile beyond any he had 
known — more exotic. He had an impulse to re¬ 
ject love as a factor in her conduct, to credit her 
enthusiasm in this fellow’s presence to the relief 
it offered from nostalgia, from the homesickness 
that lay heavy on her. Carney remembered, too, 
how trustingly the girl had gone into the arms of 
Farnham at the time of their meetings in the cham¬ 
ber of Andrieff. He was inclined to believe that 
the girl’s love was actually given to the architect. 
Still, reason reminded him that women are fickle. 
His thoughts spun disorderly, until Vera turned 
presently, and again addressed him: 

“ Boris here is an actor,” she explained in En¬ 
glish. She was still voluble and excited, though 
more staid than she had been a moment before 



60 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


when using her native tongue. “ Of course, he has 
temperament; he is most sensitive. Now he tells 
me that he is afflicted by the presence of this third 
parrot—poor thing! It cannot disturb his ears, 
since it is dumb, but it is offensive to his eyes.” 
Her gesture indicated the mutilated bird in the un¬ 
covered cage. 

The man smiled whimsically, and in his turn ad¬ 
dressed Carney in flawless English. His voice 
was gentle and musical, very resonant. His black 
eyes shone good-naturedly, and the flexible lips 
were smiling. The psychologist felt himself agree¬ 
ably interested in the fellow. A certain restraint 
that had held him hitherto vanished before the 
other’s geniality and charming manner. Indeed, 
Carney experienced a sort of fascination in watch¬ 
ing the play of changing expressions, which was 
manifested not only in the pliant lines of the face, 
but also in the eyes, in the tones of the disciplined 
voice, in the carefully controlled gesticulation. 

“That parrot is a bird of ill omen,” Goshkoff 
declared. “To be sure, it is mute, but—” he 
shuddered — “every time that tongueless beak 
gapes open it shrieks of blood and death. The 
noise of the other two parrots at their worst is 
dreadful enough in all conscience, yet it is as noth¬ 
ing to the silence of this other.” 

There was, perhaps, something artificial, some¬ 
thing theatrical, in the words. Yet back of them, 



What the Parrots Said 


61 


as it seemed to his hearers, was genuine feeling. 
And the consummate art in the method of utter¬ 
ance, in pitch and stress and inflection, carried con¬ 
viction. The girl whitened a little, as if she looked 
again into that room where Andrieff lay dead. 
Carney himself recalled with repugnance his first 
sight of that beak, bloody and gaping. His eyes 
went to the cage, and they were held there for a 
little by an attraction difficult to explain. The par¬ 
rot presented a morbid spectacle. It appeared, in 
fact, a symbol somehow of the crime committed 
in its presence. It, too, had suffered; in some un¬ 
known fashion it had been involved in the mystery 
of Andrieff’s death; in a lesser way, it had been a 
victim. Again, Carney found himself wondering 
why. What could have been the bird’s share in 
the tragedy? Whose was the hand that had 
thus ruthlessly left the bird voiceless? Had the 
act been merely one of wanton cruelty, or had 
there been underlying it a motive significant and 
sinister? The psychologist felt a rush within him 
of strong desire to know the truth. It was with an 
effort that he at last tore his eyes from the parrot, 
and compelled himself to listen to the conversa¬ 
tion of his companions. 

“I cannot sympathize with your wish to have 
these creatures near you,” Goshkoff was saying. 
“They reek of crime; they smell of blood.” He 
spoke with an intensity that made Vera cower. 



62 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“Do not say such things!” she protested ve¬ 
hemently. 

“But since they are true— It may even be 
that these two—” his gesture indicated the draped 
cages by the window—“talk of death, of murder 
most foul. What do they say, Vera Ivanitzka?” 
A subtle intensity in the speaker’s tone, as he asked 
the question, caught Carney’s attention. He spoke 
impulsively: 

“I heard them — in that room; their noise was 
just gibberish, just the duckings and squawkings 
of birds. There was no speech, nothing articu¬ 
late.” 

Vera, recovering in an instant from her sombre 
mood, laughed outright. 

“ Fie! my dear Doctor Carney, and for shame! 
It is not polite of you to speak thus of our beloved 
Russian language, duckings and squawkings, 
forsooth — no articulate speech — oh, dear! Was 
that what you were thinking as you listened to the 
conversation between Boris and me just now?” 

Carney experienced a sensation of mild em¬ 
barrassment, but his curiosity overcame it. 

“ Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “ that 
those parrots can talk, that they were actually 
talking Russian when I heard them?” 

Vera nodded. 

“ Naturally, they do not speak the elegant elocu¬ 
tion of Boris, but they surely talk Russian — a 




What the Parrots Said 


63 


very little. One of them repeats my name quite 
distinctly, Vera Ivanitzka, and the other repeats 
the name of Andrieff. They have a few words 
besides, not many.” 

“I am greatly surprised,” Carney admitted. 
“ It is evident that my hearing is bad in Russian. 
Were they, then, old pets of Andrieff’s? He had 
them in Russia?” 

“No,” the girl answered. “There were no 
parrots at the cottage. But Andrieff was a sailor, 
you know, and sailors have a partiality for such 
creatures. He must have picked them up some¬ 
where while voyaging to this country. Probably, 
he would have taught them more phrases.” 

“What is it that they say,” the actor asked, 
“besides the names?” 

“It is rather curious,” Vera answered. “It is 
only occasionally that they call out the names, but 
one of them constantly cries ‘ S f ikonee,’ and the 
other says, ‘ Sto tridtsat dva arshina / ” 

Goshkoff showed no interest in the phrases, but 
Carney was eager to learn the meaning of the 
words. 

“What is the English translation?” was his 
quick inquiry. 

U ‘S* ikonee the girl interpreted, “signifies, 
‘from the iconJ” 

“An icon,” the psychologist remarked rather 
doubtfully, “is a sacred picture; it hangs on the 



64 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


wall in every Russian home and is a sort of 
shrine.” 

“As you see,” the girl said softly, and she 
pointed to the far end of the room. Carney’s 
gaze went in the direction indicated, and he saw 
against the wall an exquisitely painted scene of 
the crucifixion. It was framed in heavy gold, deli¬ 
cately chased and ornamented with precious stones. 

“I carried it hidden on me through all that 
frightful journey,” Vera said reverently. “ It was 
like a shield to me.” In her tone sounded the 
sincerity of a living faith. It was only when, after 
a few moments, the girl stirred as if arousing from 
reverie that Carney ventured to question her 
again: 

“And what is it the other parrot keeps repeat¬ 
ing?” 

“It is merely nonsense: ‘Sto tridtsat dva 
arshindy means, ‘ one hundred and thirty-two 
yards! ” 

The psychologist knitted his brows in puzzled 
thought over the two phrases during the little si¬ 
lence that followed. The words, “ from the icon,” 
and “one hundred and thirty-two yards” offered 
nothing that seemed helpful toward solving the 
mystery of Andrieff’s death. Carney realized that 
in a vague way, almost subconsciously, he had 
hoped that some clue to the assassin might be 
found in the reiterated mouthings of the birds. It 



What the Parrots Said 


65 


was evident now that no assistance was to be had 
from this source. The oft-spoken phrases could 
have no relation to the crime. There had been no 
icon on the wall of that bare chamber in which 
Andrieff was done to death. Nor had there 
been any distance within those walls of one hun¬ 
dred and thirty-two yards. Yet, somehow, this 
very failure to discover any significance in the 
speech of the parrots seemed to emphasize the 
mystery that lay in the mutilation of the other bird. 
Why had any one wished thus brutally to silence 
the third parrot? Could it have been the act of 
a man made frantic by the harsh cries? That 
seemed unlikely, since the other birds were left un¬ 
touched, to continue their screechings. Had the 
mutilation been merely the wanton cruelty of a 
madman? And the answer must be no again, 
since the cunning of the insane would disdain an 
act so motiveless. Moreover, there was always 
the question as to the identity of the perpetrator. 
Was the doer of the deed Andrieff or another? 
Carney could not believe that the dead Russian 
had acted thus. The man had not been a maniac: 
he had been simply a stolid Russian peasant. He 
had been, too, a friend of parrots, rather than 
their foe. He had loved and tended the birds. It 
was inconceivable that he should have been guilty 
in this matter. It was reasonable to believe, Car¬ 
ney concluded, that someone other than Andrieff 



66 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


had sheared off the tongue of the hapless bird, 
and that there had been some strong impelling 
cause. He could hazard no guess as to the nature 
of that cause, but he felt a rush of conviction now, 
not only that such a cause existed, but also that in 
the discovery of it there would be found some vital 
revelation concerning the slaying of Andrieff. 
Carney got to his feet abruptly, and made his 
farewells to his hostess and her other guest. He 
wished to be alone in order to mull over all the 
possibilities that might present themselves to his 
mind during a period of concentrated thought. He 
had for his consideration two questions: 

Who had rendered the third parrot dumb? 

Why? 

And a third question rang loudly in his brain, 
to which, he knew, he could find no answer: 

What had been the words spoken by the third 
parrot? — words so meaningful that they must not 
be repeated! 



CHAPTER VII 

THE ARCHITECT SPEAKS 


C ARNEY’S thoughts during the evening that 
followed, which he spent quietly at home, 
were a medley out of which nothing of definite 
value issued. He carefully scrutinized all of his 
knowledge as to the facts of Andrieff’s murder, 
but he was unable anywhere to find a suggestion of 
means whereby the slayer might be identified. He 
was forced to the conclusion that the only hope 
of securing the criminal lay in the remote chance 
of another encounter on his part with the stranger 
whom he had watched in the elevated train. The 
conviction was firm in the mind of the psychologist 
that this had been the guilty man. He had no 
doubt whatever that he would instantly recognize 
the face were it ever again to be presented before 
him. Unfortunately, a second meeting was a pos¬ 
sibility so remote as to offer no comfort to his de¬ 
sire of solving the mystery. 

Carney devoted much time to futile musings on 
the phrases repeated by the parrots. He was 
much impressed by the discovery that what he had 
taken for meaningless cries on the part of the birds 
were actually intelligible words in the Russian 
67 


68 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


language. The translations given him by Vera 
held chief place in his reflections for a long time. 
He realized that the two phrases when taken to¬ 
gether made an excellent start toward a statement 
of possible importance. “ From the icon one 
hundred and thirty-two yards,” or, in the reverse 
form, “One hundred and thirty-two yards from 
the icon,”—-these words sounded like a simple 
and sensible direction of some sort. It was evi¬ 
dent, however, that the statement was incomplete. 
The two phrases suggested a third — to follow 
the measure of distance: “ From the icon one hun¬ 
dred and thirty-two yards” to— Had there, 
indeed, been such a third phrase? Instantly, then, 
as the thought formulated in his mind, recollection 
fairly flamed — recollection of the third parrot, 
with bloody beak where the tongue had been 
slashed off at the roots. Once again, Carney ex¬ 
perienced the swift, irresistible rush of conviction. 
He felt that he had no need to reason, since he 
knew. That third parrot had possessed a form 
of words, which it cried over and over, a form of 
words that completed the phrases of its fellow 
birds. There remained the speech of the un¬ 
harmed parrots: “ From the icon one hundred and 
thirty-two yards;” there was lost, and lost hope¬ 
lessly, as it seemed, the phrase spoken by the 
other bird. 

It was still early in the evening when the psy- 



The Architect Speaks 


69 


chologist determined to give up further considera¬ 
tion of the problem for the time being, and to go 
to bed. He felt a little sheepish over the strength 
of his conviction concerning the third parrot, since 
it was due hardly at all to reason, rather to an im¬ 
pulse toward belief; it was intuitive, not the re¬ 
sult of logical processes. Because he had always 
prided himself on a rationalistic habit of mind, 
Carney regarded his mood with a trace of sus¬ 
picion, albeit also with a trace of pride. “ Reason 
is only a makeshift means for attaining knowl¬ 
edge,’’ he reflected, “ always liable to error from 
ignorance of essential facts. Absolute knowledge, 
the intuitive perception, is vastly superior. The 
trouble is that what seems intuitive may be in 
reality the result of reasoning concerning which 
one is not conscious.’’ The psychologist fully in¬ 
tended to follow this line of thought for some 
time, but his plan was thwarted by the heavy sleep 
that seized him the moment his head touched the 
pillow—sleep deep, restful, dreamless, such as 
he had not known for many a month. 

It was soon after breakfast the next morning 
that Carney was surprised by the advent of Farn- 
ham. The unexpected visitor excused himself for 
the intrusion, speaking with a constraint that ren¬ 
dered gloomy his usual frank and pleasant expres¬ 
sion. 

“I have ventured to call on you, Dr. Carney,” 



70 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


he explained, as he seated himself in a chair of¬ 
fered by his host, “ because conventionalities seem 
of little importance when men have met in circum¬ 
stances such as those that first brought us to¬ 
gether.” 

“ I am glad you have come,” the psychologist 
answered simply. “The fact that we met as we 
did is indeed sufficient reason for foregoing subse¬ 
quent thought of formality. Besides, I am very 
glad to see you. For that matter, I had been 
thinking seriously of calling on you.” 

Farnham sighed with relief. Now that the 
ice was broken, the constraint of his expression 
passed, and a smile lightened the gravity of his 
features, though that smile was grave. 

“I am sure,” he remarked meditatively, “that 
your interest in this case of the murder of Andrieff 
is an unusual one. It seems inevitable that it should 
be so, since you were led in such an extraordinary 
way to the discovery of the crime. If you will per¬ 
mit me to compliment you, Doctor Carney, I wish 
to say that your action was a wonderful illustra¬ 
tion of ability to observe with exactness and to 
reason from what you observed correctly and 
swiftly. I doubt that any other person could have 
performed the feat.” 

But Carney shook his head. 

“There was something else to it,” he declared 
almost testily. “It wasn’t just a matter of rea- 



The Architect Speaks 


71 


soning. You must remember, young man—” he 
gnawed at the bristles of his mustache for a few 
seconds— “you must remember that there on the 
elevated train I was within the zone of a tremen¬ 
dous emotional disturbance. Knowledge came to 
me directly, and its source was the assassin him¬ 
self. I was made sensitive somehow by the pe¬ 
culiar situation, by the things I observed, which 
rendered me receptive to the conviction that came 
to me. My reasoning on the matter then and 
afterward served only to justify that conviction.” 

“You’re a bit beyond me,” the listener ad¬ 
mitted, with a puzzled look. “ Of course, it’s your 
line, and you are probably right. Anyhow, the im¬ 
portant thing to me is that you believe this 
stranger to be guilty.” He hesitated for a few 
moments, while his host regarded him curiously, 
and then continued in a tone almost defiant. “ In 
view of all you have learned since, do you believe 
that the stranger on the elevated train was actually 
the murderer of Andrieff?” 

“Yes,” was the uncompromising answer. “If 
I ever see that man again, I shall denounce him 
as the assassin. I haven’t the shadow of a doubt 
as to his guilt.” 

“There would have to be other evidence 
against him beyond your accusation.” 

“It would be brought to light, once the fellow 
was identified.” 



72 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“There is the difficulty,” the architect objected. 
“Even if chance were to do the unlikely thing, 
and bring you again face to face with that man, 
you would not recognize him.” 

Carney snorted indignantly. 

“I would recognize him anywhere, in any cir¬ 
cumstances, at a glance,” he asserted stoutly. His 
tone rang with conviction. But Farnham was not 
convinced. 

“ From your own account, this man on the train 
was in a state of intense emotion during all the 
time that he was under your observation. The 
variety and the force of his feelings were con¬ 
stantly registered in the play of his features. His 
expression continually shifted: it showed horror, 
gloating — other extreme emotions. Is it not 
so?” 

Carney dumbly nodded assent. There was ap¬ 
prehension in the gaze of the clear bulbous eyes 
behind the heavy lenses as they studied his visitor. 

“So,” Farnham went on, “the fact is that you 
have never seen the fellow’s face in repose. The 
significance of that fact is vital, because you could 
not recognize him again. An expressive face of 
the mobile sort you have described is unrecogniz¬ 
able under the stress of such powerful emotions, 
and the reverse is equally true. The fact is illus¬ 
trated in the case of any great emotional actor. 
A study of a series of photographs shows how 



The Architect Speaks 


73 


great are the changes. You see, Doctor Carney, 
this matter is one in which I can speak as a sort 
of expert. I am not an actor, but I am a painter. 
I am an architect by profession but a painter by 
avocation. I am fond of doing portraits, and 
what I have just told you is a fact out of the 
portrait-painter’s primer.” 

The psychologist nodded somewhat dolefully 
in assent to Farnham’s statement. 

“It may be that you are justified in what you 
say. It is a matter that I have never investigated, 
but your declaration is plausible, to say the least. 
You believe that I could meet the fellow face to 
face, could talk to him even, without recognizing 
him?” 

“ Yes—you did not hear his voice.” 

“ No, confound it all! ” Carney spluttered. “ I 
only saw him rolling his eyes like a hen with the 
pip. I guess you’re right, but there must be some 
way of tracing him.” He made an effort to hide 
the chagrin which he felt over the collapse of his 
vague ambition some time to identify the crim¬ 
inal. He seized on Farnham’s reference to paint¬ 
ing to make a diversion. 

“You give some of your time, you have said, 
to painting?” 

“Yes. I have some talent, I believe, in that 
direction but not genius. I find pleasure in it in 
my leisure, without bitterness, since I have no 



74 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


illusions as to greatness in my achievements. I 
have no ambition toward a career. My painting is 
only a pastime, but a most agreeable one.” 

“ I fancy you are right,” the psychologist de¬ 
clared. “You are sensible enough not to deceive 
yourself. Endeavor in art is a curse to the incom¬ 
petent who cannot, or will not, admit his limita¬ 
tions.” 

“ I have a studio on the top floor of the house 
where I live, in West Seventy-second Street. Just 
lately,” Farnham went on in a voice that held a 
warmer note, “ I have been trying my hand on a 
portrait study of Miss Daniloff.” 

“ Oh! ” Carney ejaculated, somewhat surprised. 
“Then she is having her portrait painted.” 

“Yes, in a way,” the young man assented, with 
a smile; “but not in the sense you mean. She is, 
in fact, posing for me as a model. My meeting 
her came about through her being recommended 
to me by an artist who is a fellow countryman of 
hers. She was almost penniless when she arrived 
here, and she has supported herself by posing.” 

“I should never have guessed it,” Carney ex¬ 
claimed. He was remembering not only the Rus¬ 
sian girl’s delicate beauty, but her aristocratic air, 
her manner of gracious gentility. He found it 
difficult to think of her as one of those that com¬ 
mercialize their charms by display for hire at so 
much the hour. “ She doesn’t look like a model.” 



The Architect Speaks 


75 


Farnham laughed outright. 

“I suppose you have the ordinary idea of the 
model as a type. But they are of all kinds. Miss 
Daniloff—” again his voice softened—“poses 
only for the head and bust and arms. She is a 
wonderful subject. It is not only the regularity 
of her features and the vivacity of her expression, 
but there is a quality of gold in the coloring of 
her skin that is as rare as it is difficult to paint. 
You have noticed her hands ?” 

“Yes; they are exquisite.” 

“Exquisite, indeed!” the artist sighed. “By 
the same token, they are beyond the skill of any 
painter.” 

Farnham talked freely of himself and his work, 
warmed by the evident sympathy of his listener. 
Carney found himself greatly attracted by the 
young man, who displayed lively intelligence and 
wholesome feeling. In every instance when the 
Russian girl was brought into the conversation, 
there came a change in Farnham’s tones, even in 
his whole manner, that indicated clearly enough 
the state of his feeling toward the girl. Carney 
realized that the man before him was passionately 
in love with Vera Daniloff, though there was no 
hint of this in spoken words. Again there came 
to the psychologist a recollection of how in An- 
drieff’s chamber the stricken girl had sought refuge 
in Farnham’s arms, how she had gone so simply 



76 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


and so directly to the protection of that embrace. 
The memory inclined him to believe that the feel¬ 
ing of love was reciprocal. But there came to 
him, too, memory of the joy that had transfigured 
Vera at the coming into her presence of Boris 
Goshkoff. He remembered as well her assertion 
as to what her own language meant to her. Had 
her delight over the advent of the Russian actor 
had its source in her craving for the things of 
home, or had the cause been still deeper, some¬ 
thing personal, a matter of the man himself? 
While his guest continued talking, Carney debated 
the affair without reaching any conclusion, except 
that his own sympathies were enlisted on the side 
of this American gentleman, whom he already re¬ 
garded as a friend. He guessed that Farnham 
had not yet put his fortune to the test, and also 
that the young man was none too confident of a 
successful issue. For Farnham remained through¬ 
out the morning obviously constrained. Though 
he talked frankly, and laughed pleasantly, there 
was in his manner and expression an intangible 
quality that suggested one secretly ill at ease. 
Carney set down the cause as the apprehensive¬ 
ness of a lover who was fearful over the outcome 
of his suit. It did not occur to the psychologist, 
after his guest’s departure, that there might be an¬ 
other explanation of Farnham’s constraint, an ex¬ 
planation wholly unromantic, sordid, dreadful. 



CHAPTER VIII 

A STARTLING REVELATION 


FEW days later, Carney called again on the 



1 \ Russian girl, who welcomed him warmly. 
Her candid pleasure over his coming had a most 
agreeable effect on the visitor. The psychologist 
was vastly attracted by Vera’s unusual personality. 
He experienced keen pleasure in the contemplation 
of her loveliness of face, her gracefulness of form, 
her vivacity of expression, so changeable, yet al¬ 
ways charming. He found especial pleasure, too, 
in her intellectual phases, which always interested 
him, though often they appeared puzzling. Had 
he been a younger man, he reflected, he would un¬ 
doubtedly have fallen desperately in love with the 
girl, whose fascination was of an undeniable sort, 
and this a sort to increase rather than to diminish 
with more intimate acquaintance. Since he was 
beyond the age of romance, the psychologist per¬ 
mitted himself to bask at ease in her radiance, 
with no ardent hopes, but with delight in the frank 
friendliness that swiftly grew between them. At 
the very outset, his feeling toward the girl had in 
it something of a paternal quality. A sense of 
responsibility in her behalf developed. It seemed 


77 


78 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


to him as if their extraordinary first meeting had 
been designed by fate to establish a relationship 
both intimate and enduring. His interest extended 
definitely to any love-affair in which she might be 
involved. His own prejudice in favor of Farn- 
ham as a suitor influenced him to speak of the 
young man, and he told Vera of the visit he had 
received. 

“He informed me,” Carney concluded, “that, 
in addition to being an architect, he is a painter 
also — especially of portraits.” 

The girl nodded vigorously. 

“He paints really splendidly,” she declared, and 
her enthusiasm was genuine. “ I know something 
of such things, and his work is excellent. Did he 
tell you that I had posed for him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did he tell you what he said of my hands?” 
The tender lips curved in a joyous smile. 

“ He said that they are beautiful,” Carney an¬ 
swered, “as indeed they are.” He was a little 
embarrassed over the boldness of the compliment. 

But the girl made no disclaimer. Instead, she 
extended her arms, with the hands upraised so 
that she could study the graceful lines, the dim¬ 
ples, the tapering fingertips, the delicate coloring, 
white tempered with rosy gold. She made no 
secret of her pleasure in the survey. Her satis¬ 
faction was frank and naive, like that of a child. 



A Startling Revelation 


79 


“Yes,” she agreed, “he thinks they are beau¬ 
tiful, and he has told me so.” Her voice had 
softened a little, and the listener wondered if it 
were also touched with tenderness-—he was not 
quite sure. Then, Yera laughed. “But he said 
something else, too. He gritted his teeth, and 
he said, ‘ Those damn’ hands! ’ Ah, yes, dear 
Doctor Carney, seven days did he so toil over 
these fingers of mine, and at the end of the sev¬ 
enth day he said it — 1 Those damn’ hands! ’ You 
see, he snapped at a larger quantity than he could 
masticate.” A frown wrinkled her forehead, 
while the psychologist stared uncomprehending. 
“No, he himself said it, but not quite like that. 
Oh — he bit off a larger quantity than he could 
masticate. You understand?” 

Light burst on Carney. 

“He bit off more than he could chew, when he 
set out to paint your hands.” 

“Exactly. Masticate means the same as chew, 
but it does not sound so snappy. 4 Chew ’ is much 
more idiotic.” 

“Idiomatic,” the Doctor corrected. The girl, 
however, gave him no heed. Her face had sud¬ 
denly sobered. As she spoke, a note that was 
almost defiant sounded in her voice. 

“But I shall not go to Mr. Farnham’s studio 
again.” 

“The picture is finished, then?” 



80 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


A shake of the head was the girl’s decisive an¬ 
swer. 

“I shall not go there again,” she repeated. 
“Something has occurred.” The blue eyes re¬ 
garded Carney questioningly for a little. It 
seemed that she was in a mood to make a con¬ 
fidence, yet doubtful as to the propriety of such 
a course. Presently confidence in this new friend 
overcame the instinct toward reticence. She had 
been troubled by a deep perplexity, and welcomed 
this opportunity to share her trouble with another. 
The matter was so intimate and of a sort so sin¬ 
ister that she had to overcome a great reluctance, 
but she was deeply impressed by the sympathy of 
Carney’s manner, and her trust in him was such 
that she had no fear of betrayal by him. More¬ 
over, she felt further justification of her course 
from the fact that Carney himself had not been 
wholly frank in his disclosures to Deputy Com¬ 
missioner Maxwell. He had kept silence concern¬ 
ing the woman who had claimed to recognize 
Farnham. So, at last, Vera spoke her mind 
freely: 

“ I shall not go again to his studio, because I 
cannot understand. I shall tell you in the hope 
that you may find some explanation. But this 
must be between just you and me.” 

“ Of course. I shall not reveal anything you 
may tell me in confidence. Perhaps it will make 



A Startling Revelation 


81 


ft easier for you if I say at once that I overheard 
your remark in the cab about having met Farn- 
ham in Ninth Avenue the day before.” 

“Ah! ” Relief was in the exclamation. He had 
heard, and he had said nothing—the man could 
be trusted. She paused for a little to arrange her 
thoughts, then burst forth impulsively: 

“It is not that I wish to make a noise like a 

pi&* 

Carney’s mouth fell open in sheer amazement. 
His bewilderment was plain to Vera, and she 
resented it. 

“ What is it? ” she demanded sharply. “ What 
is the word for making such a noise?” 

“Er—perhaps you mean squeak” was the 
doubtful answer. 

The girl’s face lighted, and her smile was grate- 
ful. 

“That is it — squeal. I heard the policeman, 
Maxwell, say it when I was in his office. He 
spoke of a prisoner who would squeal. I thought 
it very odd. It sounded as if they meant to tor¬ 
ture him. But I listened, and so I learned that 
to squeal means to make a confession that impli¬ 
cates one’s fellows in crime, one’s — ha! — pals 0 
To squeal is one of your idiotic expressions.” 

For once, Carney did not offer a correction. 

“It is indeed,” he assented. 

“So, you understand now,” the girl went on, 



&2 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


and her voice was serious again. “ I do not wish 
to squeal on Edward—Mr. Farnham. He has 
been my great friend, my best friend. But I 
would tell you, since I trust you, and I hope for 
help from you — help to understand.” She halted 
for a little to arrange her thoughts, then went on, 
speaking swiftly and concisely: 

“The woman there in that house said that she 
had seen Edward the day before. Well, she had 
although he denied it, as you yourself heard, Doc¬ 
tor Carney. I said nothing then, though I won¬ 
dered greatly, since I knew that he lied to the 
woman. You have told me that you heard what 
I said in the cab. It was then that I taxed him 
with his deceit. And, again, he lied. He pro¬ 
tested still that the woman was mistaken. But 
there was more. I myself had gone to that house, 
at once after receiving Andrieff’s letter. As I en¬ 
tered the hall, Edward came down the stairs. He 
told me not to go up, since Andrieff was absent. 
He declared that he was in great haste, but that 
later he would make everything clear to me. Be¬ 
fore I could question him further, he hurried away 
from me. I was startled, and I went back home 
greatly mystified. I could not understand why 
Edward should have gone to visit Andrieff. I had 
shown him Andrieff’s letter the evening before, 
but I know of no reason why he should have gone 
to the place. And he will tell me nothing — al- 



A Startling Revelation 


83 


ways he lies. That is all. He denies me, just 
as he denied the woman. Can you tell me what 
it means? I am half-mad trying to understand, 
and I understand—nothing! ” 

The psychologist remained silent, wholly at a 
loss for any suggestion to offer the girl in her per¬ 
plexity. He turned his gaze away from the beau¬ 
tiful pleading face, from the entreaty in the eyes 
fixed so eagerly on him, from the wistfulness of 
the parted lips as she waited for words to lessen 
her misery. 

“ I trusted him so,” she breathed gently, as 
Carney still maintained helpless silence. “ I 
should trust him again, if he would but let me.” 

“He denies absolutely that he visited the house 
the day before we met there? ” Carney demanded, 
at last. 

“Yes.” 

There followed a period of silence. Carney’s 
reflections were of the gloomiest. He could hit 
on no means for relieving the apprehensions of 
the girl. Her statement had only served to make 
definite the vague suspicion that had already arisen 
in his own mind, from which he had resolutely 
turned his thoughts. Now, in the face of the 
girl’s revelation he was compelled to admit the 
reality of damning evidence against Farnham. 
The young man’s denials to both the woman and 
the girl were useless. Vera had characterized 



84 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


them rightly — lies, lies! And the fact that he 
thus denied was proof of guilt. Carney was un¬ 
happily aware that, had the facts become known 
to the police, Farnham would at this moment have 
been in a cell, charged with the murder of An- 
drieff. The thought was appalling to the psychol¬ 
ogist. He remembered the clean-cut, intelligent, 
wholesome face of the architect, the magnetic 
personality, the charm that so quickly won friend¬ 
ship. In spite of the evidence, the Doctor re¬ 
tained his feeling of confidence in the innocence 
of Farnham. The feeling was shaken severely, 
but it was not destroyed. He had, too, a convic¬ 
tion that the girl, also, notwithstanding her tor¬ 
ment over the young man’s falsehood, could not 
bring herself to believe in his blood-guilt. Im¬ 
pulsively, he spoke in order to verify this convic¬ 
tion : 

“Do you believe that Farnham killed An- 
drieff?” 

“No!” the answer was spoken with firmness, 
without any trace of hesitation or doubting. But 
her voice quavered as she added: “Only, I can¬ 
not understand.” 

“ Nor do I believe him guilty,” Carney asserted. 
“ But, like you, I cannot understand.” Then, to 
cheer the girl in her despair, to cheer himself as 
well, he added: “Somehow, we shall learn the 
truth, and the truth will clear him — it must.” 



A Startling Revelation 


85 


Even as he uttered the words, Carney felt that 
they were feeble, but he could think of nothing 
more definite to promise. He was ashamed of 
his inability to offer any real consolation to Vera 
in her distress. His covert glance showed that she 
sat huddled in dejection, her face pale, her eyes 
downcast. The two remained silent during an 
interval of minutes, each busy with depressing 
thoughts. Presently, however, Carney’s mood 
changed, as mental activity overcame feeling. As 
he reviewed the girl’s narrative, he considered the 
fact that she had set out to visit Andrieff imme¬ 
diately after receiving from him the letter for 
which she had waited so long, but had been 
turned aside from her purpose on encountering 
Farnham. The discovery of the murder had been 
made a day later. The thought came to Carney 
that in the interval before the slaying of Andrieff 
the man might have written a second time. At 
once, the psychologist questioned her as to this: 

“Have you received any other letter from An¬ 
drieff ?” 

Vera aroused herself with a start, and regarded 
the speaker with astonishment. 

“I had only the one letter from Andrieff, in 
which he told me where to find him. He said 
nothing more. There was no other letter.” 

“How do you know?” 

Vera uttered a monosyllable in Russian, evi- 



86 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


dently an exclamation of impatience. 

“How do I know?” she repeated. “Because 
then he was killed.” 

“Not until many hours after he had written 
the letter you received,” Carney pointed out. 
“Andrieff had time enough to write you again. 
Have you been to the Post Office since getting the 
one letter?” 

“No.” 

“ Then, I suggest that you do so. There is a 
bare possibility that a second letter may be waiting 
for you — a letter containing some sort of clue. 
Will you go in the morning?” 

“Yes,” Vera answered obediently. But her 
voice was colorless. 

It was with a feeling of shame over his inability 
to assuage the girl’s grief that Carney made his 
farewell. 



CHAPTER IX 

FARN HAM*S DESPAIR 

H ITHERTO, Carney had been able to avoid 
much thinking over the problem presented 
by Farnham’s denial that he had visited the prem¬ 
ises in Ninth Avenue on the day preceding the 
discovery of Andrieff’s body. The psychologist 
had allowed his prejudice in favor of the architect 
to convince him that the young man could have 
no guilty association with the crime, and he had 
therefore resisted the intrusion of the puzzle on 
his thoughts. He had been influenced, too, by a 
natural desire to disavow any responsibility in the 
affair. This excuse had served in some measure 
to justify his own conduct. He suffered from a 
lurking suspicion that his failure to reveal every¬ 
thing to the authorities had been culpable, to say 
the least, and the simplest method of escape from 
self-condemnation had been by refusal to let the 
matter occupy his mind. Now, however, the sit¬ 
uation had abruptly changed. The difficulty was 
no longer merely something that had to do with 
the relations between himself and the police; or 
with the relations between himself and his con¬ 
science: it now had to do with the relations be- 
87 


88 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


tween himself and Vera Daniloff. He no longer 
stood alone to confront the problem: the Russian 
girl was joined with him, and the two of them 
alike must face the issue. It was here that his 
responsibility increased, became a serious burden, 
possibly a dangerous one. In his own case, an 
instinctive liking for Farnham, an intuitive trust in 
the young man’s integrity, had guided his course. 
But, in the case of the girl, as seemed certain to 
Carney, the emotion involved was stronger than 
liking, was in fact love. There had been cadences 
in her voice that hinted of the secret hidden in her 
heart. The very strength of her feeling as she 
revealed it in telling the story of her trouble bore 
witness that she loved the man whom she accused. 
There was further evidence in her refusal to give 
credence to that conclusion as to Farnham’s guilt 
which would naturally follow from the things she 
knew. She had limited her denunciation to the 
lies: she had denied the possibility of a deeper 
guilt. So, then, Carney realized that he could no 
longer consult his own convenience, that he could 
no longer rest passive. He had become the ally 
of a distraught girl — rather, of a woman fearful 
for the safety of her lover, fearful even for the 
safety of her love. There was need of action. 
Somehow, the mystery must be cleared. Yet, 
Carney found himself wholly baffled as to the 
means. He carried the problem to bed with him 



89 


Farnham’s Despair 

that night, with the expectation of giving it some 
hours of concentrated thought. But he was no 
sooner between the sheets than he fell fast asleep. 

The psychologist awoke full of vigor. The 
problem was still present in his mind, and he per¬ 
ceived with a feeling of mild disgust that his sub¬ 
conscious self had done nothing during the hours 
of repose to make light in the darkness. “The 
subconscious is bunk,” Carney grov/led to himself, 
and then grinned as he reflected how effective this 
statement — which he would not make — would 
prove in one of his lectures. Vera Daniloff, he 
meditated, would classify it as idiotic, and she 
would be right. 

Nevertheless, though the problem still reared 
itself as formidable as before, the psychologist 
now contemplated it without dismay. New vigor 
had flowed into him during the night, and he felt 
fit to do battle and to conquer, whatever might be 
the odds against him. One thing he knew: Farn- 
ham had not been the stranger on the elevated 
train — so, Farnham could not be the murderer. 
Remained, then, only the mystery as to the young 
man’s lies to the frowsy woman of the tenement, 
to Vera Daniloff. 

“ I’ll get at the truth somehow,” Doctor Carney 
muttered, as he stared unseeing at the headlines 
in his morning paper. 



90 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


The telephone rang, and a visitor was an¬ 
nounced. 

“Let him come up,” Carney called. He hung 
the receiver on its hook, and stood facing the en¬ 
trance door. “It beats the devil!” he exclaimed 
with what, for him, was a considerable degree of 
violence. “ I have a feeling that a — er—a crisis 
is approaching.” Then his servant threw open 
the door and Edward Farnham entered the room. 
It needed only a glance to reveal the fact that the 
visitor was in the grip of strong emotion. The 
tall form did not seem quite so tall: it was held 
rigidly as if in the tension of overpowering feel¬ 
ing, yet had an aspect of being somehow shrunken. 
The slight stoop of head and shoulders, which 
was characteristic of the architect, was empha¬ 
sized; it gave him the appearance of one bowed 
under a burden too great for his strength. The 
face was white, as if from either exhaustion or 
fear, or perhaps both. But the gray eyes were 
unusually brilliant, with the fires of the spirit burn¬ 
ing in them. The lips were set firmly, and they 
did not relax into a smile during utterance of a 
formal greeting. Farnham seemed to be waiting 
tensely for the trivial formalities of the occasion 
to be ended. It was only when the two men were 
seated opposite each other that he frankly gave 
way to his mood, and revealed the motive of his 
coming, freely made known the causes of the de- 



Farnham's Despair 


91 


spair that possessed him. His opening words 
shocked Carney, and keyed him instantly to a taut 
appreciation of the crisis. 

“ Doctor Carney,” Farnham demanded without 
preface in a tone almost fierce under the effort at 
repression, “do you think I’m a murderer?” 

“Good God, no!” the psychologist ejaculated. 
There was no hint of hesitation, no suggestion of 
a reservation in his denial. Yet, the sincerity of 
the response was powerless to relieve Farnham’s 
torment. The young man went on speaking rap¬ 
idly, and the bitterness in his voice was like a cry 
of anguish. 

“Nor do I think that I am a murderer! But 
I am half mad in trying to understand the truth 
of this thing. I know that I did not kill this Rus¬ 
sian peasant, Andrieff. I know that I am innocent 
of the crime.” 

“Of course you arc innocent,” Carney inter¬ 
posed hastily, in an attempt to soothe the other’s 
desperation. “ The idea of your guilt is too ab¬ 
surd. No one accuses you of killing him.” 

“You are wrong,” came the vehement retort. 
“ It is only a question of time until all the world 
will believe me a murderer, will believe me to 
have been the assassin of that poor old man, 
whom I never so much as saw alive. I cannot 
even blame the world for believing me guilty. 
The police have evidence enough to convict me. 



92 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


The evidence is enough to overcome the personal 
bias of one who regarded me as a friend at least.” 

“You exaggerate,” Carney protested. But 
Farnham shook his head. 

“No. The evidence against me is so strong 
that I myself am staggered by it. I am forced to 
doubt myself, my own senses, my own identity. 
I know that I did not kill Andrieff. But there is 
proof, ample proof, that I did — and I cannot 
explain it away.” 

“You must tell me the whole story in detail,” 
the psychologist urged. “There must be some 
simple explanation of the facts that so trouble 
you. For myself, the evidence against you is 
worthless, because I saw the man that committed 
the murder—it was not you.” 

“It is because of that belief on your part that 
I had courage to come to you. No one else in 
the world could credit what I say.” Farnham 
spoke more quietly now. Some measure of relief 
had followed his frantic outburst. His listener’s 
sympathy exercised a calming effect on the turmoil 
of his spirit. 

“ There is nothing plausible in what I have to 
tell,” he declared morosely. “The case against 
me depends on the fact that I was seen in the 
Ninth Avenue house the day before you and I and 
Vera Daniloff met there. I was seen there about 
dusk that day by the woman tenant, and also by 



93 


Farnham’s Despair 

Vera Daniloff herself. These two women both 
identify me perfectly. The tenant woman did not 
speak to me, but Vera Daniloff did. It is useless 
to claim that she was mistaken, for we have been 
friends for months with daily meetings, in which 
we were often together for hours at a time. It 
is quite impossible to believe her mistaken in her 
identification of me.” 

“But she was?” 

“Yes, she was mistaken. My first and only 
visit to the Ninth Avenue house was when I found 
her and you together in the room where Andrieff 
was lying dead. But that fact rests solely on my 
say-so. And my denial is no more than what one 
would expect from any accused criminal. In fact, 
my denial tends to prove my guilt. When the 
woman tenant accosted me, I asserted that she 
had made a mistake. But in her testimony to the 
police she described not only my appearance in 
general, but details as to my clothes. You may 
take it for granted that the identification is com¬ 
plete.” 

“ It is extraordinary,” Carney murmured feebly. 
He averted his eyes from the young man’s stricken 
face. He felt helpless in the emergency. There 
had been a pleasurable excitement in the earlier 
stages of this new adventuring into relationship 
with crime. He had been distracted from over¬ 
much absorption in study, from analysis and intro- 



94 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


spection that tended toward morbidity. The con¬ 
trast of a new contact with the outer world had 
jolted his mind from routine. Emotions strange 
to him had been set in lively movement, and he 
had found himself living with a zest as agreeable 
as it was unfamiliar. His haphazard excursion 
into the underworld had been an enjoyable expe¬ 
rience, a novelty refreshing to the jaded spirit of 
the scholar. The singular episode of the man in 
the elevated train and the subsequent event had 
humanized and invigorated him. The adventure 
had been pleasant and profitable — until now! 
Now, however, the tragedy that at the outset had 
concerned only an obscure Russian peasant had 
broadened its scope so that, at this moment, it 
included Vera Daniloff and Edward Farnham and 
— last of all and most amazingly — himself. For 
the menace against Farnham was also a threat to 
wreck the heart happiness of the girl. And the 
evil lowering over these two cast its shadow on 
him as well, since he had come to count both the 
young man and the maiden as friends. The catas¬ 
trophe found him unready, unable to offer any 
resistance, to suggest any remedy. He had lived 
his life in the sheltered places. This crisis, with 
its issues of life and death, was too great for his 
puny strength. So, he could only sit wretchedly, 
with eyes averted, and repeat that futile word, 
“ extraordinary.” 



Farnham’s Despair 


95 


Then, presently, Carney rallied a little from the 
consternation that had so beset him. A sense of 
shame stirred him to throw off the apathy that lay 
heavy and deadening on his intellect. He felt that 
he had been acting like an hysterical woman, a nin¬ 
compoop before the emergency. He had been 
appalled by the suddenness of the demand made 
on him by his young friend’s confidence. After all, 
the facts now revealed were little worse than what 
he had already known or suspected. Indeed, he 
had lost his nerve for no adequate reason. He 
prided himself on the shrewdness of his mind: 
now was the occasion to test his ability. Instead 
of doddering in a maze of perplexity, he must con¬ 
centrate on all possible schemes for explanation of 
Farnham’s predicament. By a stern effort of will, 
Carney set himself to consider the situation with 
some degree of precision, resolutely pushing out 
of consciousness so far as he could the feeling of 
panic. Almost at once, the effort was rewarded, 
for there came to him an idea that seemed of 
prime importance. 

“ In spite of the circumstantial evidence,” he 
said briskly, “you are in no actual danger. Con¬ 
viction for murder requires always proof of a 
sufficient motive. There is no evidence against 
you in that direction.” 

Again, Farnham shook his head. 

“Unfortunately, you are quite wrong,” was his 



96 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


grim rejoinder. “There is motive enough in the 
eyes of the law to send me to the chair.” 

“ Impossible! ” 

“Not impossible from a sordid viewpoint. You 
must remember that I have enjoyed the confidence 
of Miss Daniloff. For a long time I have known 
that she was anxiously waiting for the coming of 
Andrieff. I knew, too, the nature of his mission 
— that he was to bring her the sole remainder of 
the family fortune from Russia. I knew that 
the heirlooms were of great value. When Vera 
received the letter from Andrieff at the General 
Delivery, she told me of it, and she told me also 
of her intended visit to the old man. In the judg¬ 
ment of the police, the evidence would be com¬ 
plete. I am not wealthy, and it would be easy to 
suppose that avarice incited me to the crime. So, 
it would be believed that I went to the address in 
haste, in order to forestall Miss Daniloff, that I 
found Andrieff in his room, and killed him in order 
to secure possession of the jewels. Afterward, on 
my way out, I was seen by the woman tenant, who 
recognized me next day, and in the lower hall I 
encountered Vera, and even spoke to her. She 
hasn’t the slightest doubt in the world as to my 
identity on that occasion. So, you see, Doctor 
Carney, the chain of evidence is complete. There 
is nothing lacking as to the motive in this case.” 

Farnham fell silent, absorbed in bitter reflection. 



Farnham’s Despair 


97 


The psychologist was dismayed for a moment. 
He realized that his first endeavor was a dismal 
failure. As Farnham had declared, sufficient 
motive for the crime might not be difficult to estab¬ 
lish. But the spirit of combat was fully aroused 
in the Doctor, and, where before he had been 
craven, he was now dauntless. His mental powers 
were actively engaged, and his thoughts occupied 
his full attention, so that he had no heed for emo¬ 
tions, of doubt or fear. There was a problem to 
be solved. The greater the obstacles in the way 
of a solution, the greater the triumph in overcom¬ 
ing them. He was assured of Farnham’s inno¬ 
cence; the evidence seemed to prove the young 
man’s guilt. It was necessary, then, to scrutinize 
this evidence, to prove it false. It could be done 
by clear thinking. With sufficient pains, it is al¬ 
ways possible to demonstrate truth. And just as 
Carney had comforted himself with this assertion, 
he received another violent shock. 

Farnham interrupted his brooding, and spoke 
rapidly as if in haste to be done with a troublesome 
matter. 

“I have saved the worst, Doctor Carney,” he 
said sardonically, “as a tidbit for your credulous¬ 
ness. The knife with which Andrieff was killed 
belonged to me.” 

“Good God!” ejaculated the psychologist. 
Afterward, he remained in stunned silence while 



98 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


his visitor told in more detail of this last fatal bit 
of evidence. 

“You can imagine what a shock it must have 
been to me there in that room, when I went over 
to Andrieff’s dead body to search it for the jewels, 
and saw the handle of the knife standing up from 
his breast, for I recognized that handle at the first 
glimpse. You have seen the knife since down at 
Police Headquarters, so you know it was really a 
sort of dagger, with a double-edged blade about 
six inches long and a handle of hard black wood, 
grooved and with a knob on the end to give a 
good hand-hold. That handle was roughly made, 
and it was easy to recognize it. The knife was 
given to me by a friendly guide with whom I once 
traveled in Egypt. He himself had made the 
handle. There is a sheath for the blade made of 
snakeskin, with a light loop of braided leather 
for slinging the weapon on the arm. The sheath 
is lying on a shelf in my studio this minute — 
unless the police have found it. When I saw my 
knife there as the instrument of murder, I was 
sickened. The fact dazed me. I am not out of 
the daze yet. It is all of a piece — all so ghastly, 
so impossible. Now, do you wonder that I am 
half mad, that I go in terror, that I can see no 
way out? My only ray of hope has come from 
your belief that you have seen the murderer and 
that I am innocent. But of what help can this be 



99 


Farnham's Despair 

to me, actually? Your testimony could avail noth¬ 
ing against the evidences of my guilt. I feel al¬ 
ready like a fugitive from justice. I owe my lib¬ 
erty to the silence of Vera Daniloff and yourself. 
But the detectives will get my description from 
that woman in the tenement, and my arrest then 
can only be a question of time. I have not dared 
to wear again the suit and hat I was wearing that 
day. When I walk in the streets, it is with con¬ 
stant dread of feeling a hand on my shoulder, of 
hearing the words, ‘You are wanted!’” The 
concluding utterance, though softly spoken was 
heavy with despair. 

Doctor Carney, while Farnham talked, had 
overcome in some measure his first dismay at this 
latest revelation. He was again able to relegate 
emotion to a secondary place, and to concentrate 
his mind on the problems presented by the case. 
He was still certain of the young man’s innocence. 
His conviction concerning the guilt of the stranger 
on the elevated train remained unshaken. He 
therefore set himself to study the facts in search 
of any possible explanation harmonizing with his 
belief. 

“You have no suspicion as to who may have 
taken the knife from your studio?” he asked. 

“ No. It is a long time since I have noticed it. 
It might have been taken by any one among hun¬ 
dreds of different visitors. I entertain regularly, 



100 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


and often strangers to me are brought by other 
guests. It would be impossible to pick out the 
thief of the knife.” 

“Have you thought of a double? ” the psychol¬ 
ogist questioned. 

“Yes,” Farnham replied, without enthusiasm. 
“ But a double so like me as to deceive Miss 
Daniloff must certainly have attracted my own at¬ 
tention if I had ever seen him. And if he had 
been my guest at the studio, with opportunity to 
steal the knife, I should have remarked the resem¬ 
blance, as everyone else would have remarked it. 
As a matter of fact, I have never seen or heard of 
any one who was my double. The idea offers no 
help.” 

“But are you sure?” the Doctor persisted. 
“Has there never been any one — a brother, or 
cousin? ” 

“ My elder brother resembled me,” the archi¬ 
tect answered wearily. “He was taken prisoner 
by the Germans, and died.” 

“Sometimes such reports are erroneous,” Car¬ 
ney declared eagerly. “ Of course, the possibility 
is most remote, but there is, after all, a possibility 
that he may have escaped, may have returned to 
this country.” 

But Farnham would not tolerate the suggestion. 

“That is nonsense,” he asserted, and there was 
indignation in his voice. “ Had my brother lived, 



101 


Farnham’s Despair 

he could not have done this thing. I could believe 
it of myself as easily.” 

“ Unless his sufferings had unhinged his mind,” 
was the quiet comment of the psychologist. “ But 
let us leave all that, and consider another possi¬ 
bility. You know, of course, that as a psycholo¬ 
gist I have made a particular study of various 
mental abnormalities. To cover the case, it is 
necessary to consider some of these. There are 
forms of amnesia, of aphasia, in which the victim 
becomes unconscious of his acts. There are, too, 
varieties of dissociation of personality, in which 
a single individual develops duality, and does not 
carry his consciousness across the break. Thus, 
in this instance, you might have committed the 
crime, and afterward be completely ignorant of 
the fact.” 

“ I understand. The possibility seems monstrous, 
but so far, it is the only one that fits the circum¬ 
stances. Must I believe then that, though I know 
my own innocence, I am actually guilty of a foul 
murder?” 

Doctor Carney sprang to his feet, and spoke 
with an earnestness that was convincing. 

“No, you need believe nothing of the sort. 
You are innocent — I know that much. Damn 
circumstantial evidence anyhow,” he went on with 
surprising violence. “We’ll riddle it, tear it in 
tatters.” He was again yielding to the rush of 



102 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


feeling, with reason in abeyance. His enthusiasm 
was so contagious that it penetrated to the spirit 
of Farnham, and comforted him a little. The 
young man went away soon, still in misery over 
his dreadful plight, but with the burden eased ever 
so slightly. He had confessed all his trouble to a 
friend, and that confession had brought a certain 
sense of relief from the intolerable strain. And 
the relief was emphasized by that friend’s una¬ 
bated confidence, by that friend’s enduring belief 
in his innocence. 



CHAPTER X 

A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 

D OCTOR CARNEY was minded to med¬ 
itate deeply on the perplexities involved by 
the predicament of Farnham. But he was given 
scant opportunity to marshal his thoughts, for 
scarcely had his visitor gone when the telephone 
again summoned him. He recognized over the 
wire the voice of Vera Daniloff. 

“You were right, and I was wrong/’ she said 
after the exchange of greetings. 

“You mean — ?” Carney asked, at a loss to 
understand. 

* “I mean, about the letter—the letter from 
Andrieff. I went to the Post Office the first thing 
this morning. A letter from him was waiting for 
me. It was longer than the other, more explicit.” 

“Tell me,” the psychologist urged. He was 
aglow with enthusiasm over this latest develop¬ 
ment. Here might be the needed clue to all the 
mystery. But the girl checked his enthusiasm for 
the moment. 

“It would be better for you to call here this 
afternoon, if that would be convenient for you. 
Then I could read the letter to you — translated.” 

103 


104 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Doctor Carney sighed over the delay, but real¬ 
ized its advisability. Before he could answer, 
however, Vera’s voice sounded again. 

“ I am anxious to have you know what he says. 
There is some real information in the letter. Can 
you beat it?” 

“Why — er — no, I don’t think I can,” the 
Doctor stammered. The girl’s lapses into slang 
always disconcerted him. 

“Oh, I am so disappointed!” was the aston¬ 
ishing exclamation by way of answer. “ I did so 
wish to have you know at once what Andrieff 
wrote to me. When can you come, then? ” 

“ But I can come this afternoon, just as you sug¬ 
gested,” the Doctor declared in great bewilder¬ 
ment. “ I said nothing of not coming.” 

“ It may be that I made a mistake in your idiot 
— idiom,” Vera ventured in a distressed tone. “ I 
asked you, could you beat it — and you said you 
could not.” 

“Yes, but—” Carney began, only to be inter¬ 
rupted. 

“It is not, then, that ‘to beat it,’ means to go 
or to come in a step-lively manner? It is surely 
an idiotism — I have heard it. So I said, ‘can 
you beat it?’ That is to say, can you come down 
here right away?” 

“Ah, yes, exactly,” the psychologist ejaculated 
hastily as the girl paused. “It was stupid of me 



T A Message from the Dead 105 


I shall come down at once.” He did not deem it 
a fitting time to attempt instruction in the vagaries 
of the vernacular. Evidently, the Russian girl felt 
no need of such instruction in this instance, for 
with a phrase of satisfaction over his anticipated 
visit she rang off. 

Nevertheless, Doctor Carney’s eagerness to 
know the contents of Andrieff’s missive was not to 
be satisfied immediately. On his arrival at Vera’s 
apartment, he found the Russian actor, Gosh- 
koff, lounging at ease, and plainly most successful 
in distracting his hostess from any seriousness of 
mood. As Vera greeted the new arrival, her back 
was to Goshkoff, and by an arching of the brows, 
a slight movement of the lips and a backward tilt 
of the head, she indicated clearly enough that 
nothing must be said of Andrieff’s letter in the 
presence of the young man. Carney somewhat 
stiffly acknowledged the suave salutation of the 
other guest, and then sat himself down to nurse 
his chagrin over the delay. He did not try to 
take part in the conversation, which quickly re¬ 
lapsed into Russian. The Doctor watched and 
listened without understanding, and nibbled 
fiercely at the bristles of his mustache. And as 
he watched, blinking alternately at one and the 
other of the pair before him, he found himself 
again doubting as to the state of the girl’s heart. 
For she was truly another woman when in the 



106 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


presence of her compatriot. It seemed too much 
to believe that the language alone could effect 
a change so startling. It were easier to suspect 
that the presence of Goshkoff provoked a joyous¬ 
ness due to the magnetism of the man himself. 
Indeed, Carney was compelled reluctantly to ad¬ 
mit the force of that magnetism. Though he could 
not understand a word that the fellow spoke, he 
was fascinated by the lively play of emotion on 
the mobile face, the eloquence of the brilliant dark 
eyes, the charm of mirthfulness in the smile. Evi¬ 
dently, the fellow’s chief recourse was to things 
of a lighter sort, for there was most often a 
note as of laughter in his voice, and this was 
echoed daintily by the girl as she listened. Her 
responses, too, were in like vein for the great 
part. Occasionally, however, Goshkoff deepened 
his tones to seriousness, which was reflected in¬ 
stantly in the graver mood of Vera* From time 
to time, the actor hummed fragments of songs — 
Russian, Italian, French, all sung with equal 
fluency, all understood with equal facility by the 
listening girl. Carney, who understood never 
a word, could still apprehend the sentiment 
of each in turn, so expressive were both 
voice and face of the singer. Most of the songs 
were of a frivolously amusing sort, so effective 
that the psychologist found himself grinning at, he 
knew not what. But there were others in the 



A Message from the Dead 


107 


Russian, minor melodies, somber and barbaric. 
These folk songs held the girl entranced, thrilled 
to the deeps of her being. They were the songs 
of home, sole souvenirs of the past, of things 
hopelessly lost. The spell laid upon her was po¬ 
tent, nor could Carney, watching and listening, 
wonder. He himself felt his emotions strangely 
stirred. There were both sweetness and strength 
in the restrained baritone of the actor, and he 
phrased the music with finished skill. The psy¬ 
chologist felt a stirring of tumultuous emotions 
within him. He caught vague glimpses of snow- 
clad reaches, saw silhouettes of dancing men with 
bearded faces, shadows dancing with savage agil¬ 
ity, flinging booted legs, leaping, squatting, shout¬ 
ing. Carney shook his head as if to clear it of 
visions, and began again to nibble fiercely at the 
bristles of his mustache, which for a time had been 
neglected. 

Presently, Vera turned to her silent guest. 

“Boris intends to go into opera,” she said. 
“He will be a success, will he not?” 

“Yes,” Carney answered simply. But there 
was no fervor in his voice, nor did he look toward 
Goshkoff, whose own gaze turned with intentness 
on this little man so silent, so insignificant. 

When, finally, the actor had taken his depar¬ 
ture, Vera produced the letter which she had re¬ 
ceived that morning at the General Delivery, and 



108 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


read a rough translation of it to Carney. This 
letter had evidently been written only a few hours 
later than the first note, in which Andrieff had 
given his address, without adding any information 
of importance. It seemed as if perhaps some 
foreboding of the fate that threatened him had led 
the Russian peasant to write more fully to the 
mistress whom he loved. He told in some detail 
of the slow and toilsome journey by which he had 
finally reached New York, still carrying safely the 
treasure of jewels entrusted to his charge. But, 
soon after his arrival in the city, he became con¬ 
vinced that agents of the Russian Reds had gained 
knowledge of his identity and whereabouts, and 
this in spite of the fact that he had made no con¬ 
fidences to anyone, even at the outset refraining 
from an attempt to locate Vera herself. Appre¬ 
hension seized on him; he was certain that some¬ 
how knowledge of his mission had been obtained 
by the enemies of his mistress. He suspected that 
they were only waiting for a favorable oppor¬ 
tunity to rob him of the jewels. In order to save 
the gems for their rightful owner, with some 
thought, too, for his own safety, Andrieff decided 
on flight to a new hiding place. He had the ad¬ 
dress of an elder brother, who had come to Amer¬ 
ica some years before, and had remained. This 
was in a small village, Clinton, on the Connecticut 
shore of Long Island Sound. Andrieff chose the 



A Message from the Dead 109 


place for a refuge. He left New York in the 
night, on foot, and, still on foot, followed the 
shore road day after day, until at last he attained 
his destination. For the sake of secrecy, he ques¬ 
tioned no one even then, but set himself to explore 
along the water front, where his brother had a 
shack. Success was not long delayed. Within a 
few hours, he recognized his brother, wearing 
high rubber boots, wading through the shallows of 
an inlet and industriously raking the muddy bot¬ 
tom. There were warm greetings, and Andrieff 
was made welcome in the shack, a tiny single room 
built of unpainted boards with a roof made water¬ 
tight by tarred paper. It was evident that An¬ 
drieff was soothed and cheered by the reunion 
with his brother and by the homelike atmosphere 
of the humble shelter in which he now dwelt. The 
letter contained an expression of satisfaction over 
the icon on the wall in which the brother took 
great pride. 

The calm of his sojourn in this remote and 
peaceful spot was rudely broken by the appearance 
of two Russian strangers in the neighborhood, 
who attempted to establish friendly relations with 
the brother. Andrieff was alarmed by their com¬ 
ing, sure that they were emissaries of his enemies. 
He did not hesitate, but again put his reliance in 
flight, and on the night following their advent he 
started on the return journey to New York. Im- 



110 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


mediately on his arrival, he had written the first 
note to his mistress, and the longer communication 
had followed almost at once. The letter closed 
with expressions of unfailing devotion to his mis¬ 
tress and of faithfulness always to the trust im¬ 
posed on him. 

“It is sad, is it not?” the girl said, as she con¬ 
cluded her translation of the clumsily scrawled 
sheets. “Yes, it is sad. Andrieff was a faithful 
servant. He tried his best. It was not his fault 
that he failed, that those devils robbed him. He 
gave his life to defend his trust. But the letter 
gives nothing that can help. There is no clue by 
which to track the thief and murderer.” 

“No,” Carney agreed, “the letter offers no 
clue. It is touching, it arouses our sympathy and 
admiration, but it is quite useless for pointing 
toward detection of the criminal.” He spoke dis¬ 
consolately, affected by a bitter disappointment. 
Since the telephone message from Vera announc¬ 
ing the receipt of the letter, he had unconsciously 
built high hopes of some important discovery. 
Those hopes had gradually crumbled during the 
girl’s reading, and had collapsed utterly as she 
made an end. There was no single reference in 
all Andrieff’s narrative that afforded a suggestion 
for possible action. The mystery stood just as 
before, the letter shed no light. Farnham re¬ 
mained accused by circumstances. There was 



A Message from the Dead 


111 


nothing in Andrieff’s confidences to offset the facts 
that seemed to prove the architect’s guilt. Carney 
sighed, and remained silent in discouragement, his 
thoughts muddled by the disappointment to which 
he had been subjected. When, at last, he spoke, 
it was idly, as his gaze rested on the cages of the 
parrots, two of them covered, the third uncovered, 
in which the mutilated bird kept up a monotonous 
fluttering. 

“ I wonder, did Andrieff carry the three parrots 
with him in all that wandering up and down the 
shore of the Sound?” 

“Probably he did,” Vera answered, without 
interest. “He avoided acquaintances, he would 
have no one with whom to leave them.” 

“ But the idea is absurd,” the psychologist pro¬ 
tested. “A man flying secretly for his life — and 
carrying three bird cages! How could he go 
stealthily, eluding all observation? Why, his pic¬ 
ture would be in the papers, on the screen at the 
movies.” 

Vera laughed, not at the Doctor’s vehemence, 
but at a recollection. 

“ No,” she exclaimed, “Andrieff did not go like 
a parade along the highway. I can guess how he 
managed. Once at home, in Russia, I remember, 
after he returned from a voyage, he came to visit 
us. He was just like anyone else, there was noth¬ 
ing to notice — you see, he carried no bird cages. 



112 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


But soon, while he talked, he reached in a pocket 
of his heavy jacket, and took out a parrot, which 
he set on his shoulder. Then he reached in an¬ 
other pocket, and took out another parrot. From 
other pockets, he took out a third parrot and a 
fourth, which perched on his wrists. When he 
was ready to go, he put the parrots back in his 
pockets. The birds were very noisy out in the 
light, but they had nothing to say hidden there in 
the dark of his pockets. Do you see then, Doctor 
Carney? He simply carried the three parrots back 
and forth stowed away in his pockets. Thus they 
would be hidden from sight, and they would be 
silent.” 

Carney nodded assent. The explanation was 
simple, and it sufficed. He wished that he might 
come on other explanations as readily. His eyes 
went again to the uncovered cage, in which the 
mutilated parrot kept up its interminable flutter¬ 
ing. Ceaselessly, too, the beak gaped open to 
show the stump of tongue. It was as if the unfor¬ 
tunate bird were forever trying vainly to voice 
some phrase of vital significance, words now never 
to be uttered. For the hundredth time, the psy¬ 
chologist wondered what could have been the say¬ 
ing thus brutally silenced, and as always he won¬ 
dered in vain. 

“The other parrots,” he questioned, with a 
gesture toward the covered cages, “still repeat 



A Message from the Dead 


113 


those same Russian words?” 

Vera answered indifferently: 

“Sometimes, one calls me by name, and the 
other calls Andrieff. But, usually, one croaks 
merely tiresome repetitions of the distance —‘ Sto 
tridtsaf dva arshina,’ one hundred and thirty 
yards. I am so tired of that particular distance 
that I leave the cloth over the cage most of the 
time.” 

“And the other?” 

“The other is equally monotonous, but its cry 
is shorter, and not so harsh—V ikonee / from the 
icon.” 

It was as Carney was about to go that the girl 
spoke with a note of pitiful appeal in her voice. 

“You cannot yet help me to understand this 
mystery about Edward—Mr. Farnham, why it is 
that he so lies?” 

“I do not believe that he has lied to you, or 
to me,” the psychologist asserted stoutly. “He 
himself is in despair over the mystery. It seems 
certain that you mistook someone else for him.” 

The girl shook her head. Her voice rang with 
conviction as she answered: 

“ It is not as if I had had only a glimpse of him. 
We spoke face to face. I not only saw him, but 
I heard him. And I know Edward’s voice.” She 
hesitated for a moment, then flushed, and con¬ 
tinued resolutely: “I heard his voice, and his 



114 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


voice has echoes in my heart. I could not be mis¬ 
taken.” 

The blue eyes of the girl, very tender now 
though dimmed by sadness, met the Doctor’s gaze 
bravely. Before her candid sincerity, the man 
felt himself abashed, unable to agree, unable to 
deny, unable most of all to offer her any sort of 
comfort. 



CHAPTER XI 

FARNHAM EXPLAINS 


V ERA DANILOFF was of that vivacious 
temperament which revels in the joy of life 
as Fate gives opportunity, which tends toward 
complete dejection under adversity. Yet her ca¬ 
pacity for happiness was so great, her desire for 
it so eager, that ordinarily she was able to find 
existence pleasurable even when circumstances 
were of a sort to warrant melancholy. It was 
thus that a spirit roused to combat had sustained 
her through all the vicissitudes of the experiences 
surrounding her flight from Russia. She had 
endured the bitterest sorrows unflinchingly, sus¬ 
tained throughout by the excitement of the strug¬ 
gle itself and by the hope of escape. She had 
remained undaunted after her arrival in New 
York during the period of waiting for Andrieff. 
The newness of her surroundings, the strangeness 
in her manner of living had agreeably diverted her 
thoughts, so that she had maintained tranquillity, 
had been interested, amused, sufficiently content 
during this period of transition. The entrance of 
Farnham into her life had been of chief impor¬ 
tance. His personality had made instant appeal, 
115 


116 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


to which she had responded as instantly. His ob¬ 
vious devotion touched her to sympathy at the 
outset, and presently provoked a reciprocal senti¬ 
ment. The two became unavowed lovers. The 
architect delayed a formal declaration, partly 
from the timidity of the true lover, who dares not 
to believe in the reality of his triumph, partly 
from a feeling of conventional restraint that im¬ 
posed delay as a matter of propriety, by reason 
of the girl’s forlorn condition. Vera herself had 
exercised her womanly prerogative to control the 
situation. She had been discreet in imposing an 
impalpable barrier against any direct avowal. She 
had a feminine willingness to be won, but, too, 
a feminine reluctance to appearing an easy con¬ 
quest. The love-affair of the two remained thus 
tacit, but the circumstances connected with the 
slaying of Andrieff charged the silence with im¬ 
port. Though no definite word of love was 
spoken, between girl and man, the situation devel¬ 
oped a vital emotional stress. Farnham was 
aflame with longing to speak his heart, but he felt 
that he was no longer free to offer himself, since 
he had become so dreadfully involved in the mesh 
of tragedy. He realized with despair that cir¬ 
cumstantial evidence loudly proclaimed his com¬ 
plicity in a capital crime; that he was in fact little 
better than a fugitive from justice; that his arrest 
under the accusation of murder could not long be 



Farnham Explains 


117 


delayed. How could he, then, offer himself as 
lover and protector of the girl who had been so 
wronged by the crime with which he was asso¬ 
ciated? 

Vera gave most of her thought to the ghastly 
problem presented by Farnham’s case. For the 
time being, she paid comparatively little attention 
to the fact that her whole fortune had disappeared, 
that she faced poverty in a strange land. This 
menace she dismissed easily enough as something 
for future consideration. In the meantime, she 
was confronted with the appalling mystery as to 
the conduct of the man she loved. She went over 
again and again all the facts as she knew them, 
and always the issue was only a helpless bewilder¬ 
ment. She could understand nothing, except that 
her heart was breaking. The man whom she had 
respected, had honored, had loved, this man whom 
she had so greatly desired, whom she still desired 
so poignantly, this lover who had come as an 
actuality of the flesh out of the rosy mists of 
maidenly dreams — he was, after all, a fraudulent 
thing, one who told her lies, absurd lies, lies both 
absurd and terrible. Surely, she could no longer 
either honor him or love him. She must tear him 
out of her heart; she must deny even the memory 
of him; she must be strong to destroy a love that 
he himself had made worthless, contemptible. 
And yet- 




118 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


For the thousandth time, Vera Daniloff reached 
this point in her meditations, and again she was 
interrupted. Hitherto, the interruption had come 
from a subtle something deep within her spirit 
that rebelled finally and absolutely against the 
decrees of reason, against even the sway of feel¬ 
ing. It was as if the love itself that was in her 
at last stirred from a lethargy, and vibrated in 
a defiance irresistible and dominant. But, on the 
morning following Doctor Carney’s call, the in¬ 
terruption came from no secret source within the 
girl’s own being. Instead, it was brought about 
by the old peasant woman’s opening of the living- 
room door, with a phrase in Russian announcing 
a visitor. Vera, looking up from the couch where 
she crouched dejectedly amid the cushions, saw 
Farnham standing before her. 

The young man’s face was almost colorless, and 
its pallor was emphasized by the flames of emo¬ 
tion burning in the eyes. He stood silent, the 
head bowed a little after his habit, as he regarded 
the girl with an intensity that had in it something 
of the fierceness of desperation mingled with de¬ 
spair. It was a look of adoration, of entreaty, of 
utter hopelessness. As she met the man’s fixed 
gaze, Vera’s own eyes dilated a little, and her 
face, in its turn, whitened. 

“You!” she exclaimed in a stricken voice. 
Then, the instinct of hospitality helped her to 



Farnham Explains 


119 


overcome in some degree the first shock of feel¬ 
ing. She stood up quickly, and held out her hand. 
Farnham took it in both his own, and held it in 
a close grip. He did not speak for a few minutes, 
only continued to stare at her with that gaze of 
mixed longing and misery. The girl did not lift 
her glance to his face while they stood thus 
through long seconds of silence. Presently, how¬ 
ever, Vera rallied her strength, and voiced a 
formal phrase, rather awkwardly: “Won’t you 
sit down?” 

The simple words relieved in a measure the ten¬ 
sion of the moment. Farnham released the girl’s 
hand, and, as she resumed her position on the 
couch, seated himself beside her. At once, then, 
he began speaking, and the words came with a 
rush, freighted with the profound feeling hitherto 
restrained. 

“ I had to come to you, Vera. I felt that I must 
tell you once more of my innocence, even though 
the evidence against me is so overwhelming. I do 
not blame you for doubting me. The evidence of 
your own senses is against me. Yet, that evidence 
is false. I am innocent. I can only declare it 
again and again. I have no evidence with which 
to offset the evidence against me. I can do no 
more than beg you to believe in me still, in spite 
of the evidence, in spite of everything. That is 
why I have come. I want you to trust me. Some- 



120 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


how, sometime, this mystery will be explained — 
it must be! Give me a chance until then. Just 
accept the fact that here is a mystery, and, if you 
can’t have faith in me, at least suspend judgment. 
You can’t understand now—neither can I. But 
I beg you to wait. The truth must out. I am in 
despair now, for everything seems against me. I 
need your help, Vera. I need it more than you 
can guess. I can endure anything except your loss 
of faith in me. Doesn’t your instinct speak in 
my behalf? Can’t you feel that I am innocent, in 
spite of the evidence against me? I ask you to 
follow your instinct. I dare believe that your in¬ 
tuition tells you that I am not guilty.” He fell 
silent, waiting for some response. The girl did 
not look at him, but remained huddled in the cor¬ 
ner of the couch almost as if cowering from him. 
When, finally, she spoke, her voice came thinly, 
with hardly a trace of its accustomed musical 
resonance. 

“ I do not know, I do not understand,” she pro¬ 
tested feebly. “My intuition—if it says any¬ 
thing at all, it is in whispers so low that I think 
I do not hear them. But my memory calls out so 
loudly — memory of you there at that house, mem¬ 
ory of your face, memory of your voice when you 
told me to go away, told me that Andrieff was 
not in his room.” Her voice grew stronger. Its 
plaintive quality passed, it held a note of bitterness 



Farnham Explains 


121 


as she went on speaking with increased vehemence. 
“You ask me to have faith in you, to suspend 
judgment at least until the truth shall be made 
known. But is it not truth that I saw you and 
heard you there? Am I not to believe my own 
eyes, my own ears? Do they tell me lies? No I 
I must believe them. The lies are not of their 
telling.” She turned suddenly and straightened, 
to regard him with accusing eyes. “ If it had been 
someone else, anyone not you,” she went on bit¬ 
terly, “I might admit a possible mistake. But, 
with you there could be no mistake.” She forgot 
maidenly reserve in the depth of her feeling. 
“Why, I saw you, I heard your voice. I told 
Doctor Carney that your voice has echoes in my 
heart. How could I be deceived?” 

In spite of her denial of his plea, a sudden ex¬ 
ultation thrilled through Farnham. The signifi¬ 
cance of her words made him for the moment 
forget all the misery of his situation, filled him 
with a happiness that overcame every barrier. 
That phrase of hers concerning the echoes of his 
voice within her heart rang in his ears. He forgot 
everything save the supreme fact that thus the 
woman he loved had confessed her own tender¬ 
ness. The love he bore her drove him to avowal. 

“Oh, Vera!” he cried softly, in a voice that 
trembled from his effort at restraint. “ You know 
that I love you—you must know it, must feel it.” 



122 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


With the words, he stretched forth his arm, and 
took her hand in his, holding it firmly as he con¬ 
tinued speaking. The girl offered no resistance, 
but let her fingers lie limply against the firm pres¬ 
sure of his palm. She felt the warmth of his clasp 
flow swiftly through all her tissues, the subtle cur¬ 
rent of his life penetrating her, enfolding her with 
its potence. Perforce, she yielded to the charm 
of that contact, at once soothed and stimulated. 
Reason was lulled: She rested content in the new, 
strange joy of the moment. She listened in rap¬ 
ture as he went on speaking, “I had not meant 
to tell you; I felt that I had no right to tell you 
— yet, that I must wait for the explanation of this 
terrible thing. But I have no longer strength to 
keep silent. I love you, Vera — I love you! To 
win your love in return is my whole life. Nothing 
else matters. And you said something that makes 
me dare to hope: you said that my voice echoed 
in your heart. Did you mean that, Vera? Am I 
something to you, something more than other 
men? Do you care for me, Vera? Is there a 
chance that I may win you when this trouble is 
past? Tell me, Vera — can you give me any 
hope?” 

His arm tensed, and he drew her a little toward 
him. A shiver passed over the girl’s form, but she 
offered no resistance to his desire. His free hand 
went to her face, and lifted it. The eyes of the 




Farnham Explains 


123 


two met in a look ardent yet probing. Again the 
girl felt that subtle current of the man’s life borne 
on his gaze and flowing resistlessly through her. 
Her eyelids drooped languorously at last, but her 
lips curved in a smile of tenderness. Farnham 
bent his head, and kissed her. 

There was an interval of pure delight for the 
lovers, in which they had no thought of time or 
place, or of the trifles and sorrows that crowd in 
human affairs. For a blessed period they had 
no concern except for themselves in the bliss of a 
mutual love. It was only when the emotion of joy 
slackened little by little, as it inevitably must al¬ 
ways, that sanity began to return. Then, at last, 
they drew apart, and once again they looked at 
each other, curiously, somewhat doubtfully, as one 
looks when first awakening from a dream. In¬ 
deed, that thought came to each of them. They 
had dreamed, and the dream had been most won¬ 
derful, must beautiful. But it had been only a 
dream. The glory and the bliss of it were with¬ 
out power against the sordid reality that must be 
faced. The actuality was brought home to them 
by the first utterance of the girl after a long 
silence. 

“And now, Edward, can you not tell me some¬ 
thing more — something besides those silly lies?” 
She looked at him in piteous appeal. 

The man’s face paled, and the lines of It deep- 



124 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ened in a firmness that was touched with hard¬ 
ness. He gave a quick shake of the head in nega¬ 
tion, and his voice as he answered was charged 
with bitterness. 

“ Vera, I can tell you nothing more, for I have 
told you only the truth.” 

The girl’s form drooped visibly, and her eyes 
fell. Her voice, when she spoke again, was hardly 
more than a whisper. 

“I still see him lying there — Andrieff lying 
there dead. His dead face comes between us.” 
She shuddered and hid her face in her hands. 

The man remained moveless and wordless for 
a time, watching the bowed figure, until his face 
became a mask of despair. At last, he got up 
slowly and quietly, and as slowly and quietly went 
out of the room. 



CHAPTER XII 

A PERPLEXING SITUATION 

D OCTOR CARNEY found himself persist¬ 
ently baffled by the mystery surrounding the 
murder of Andrieff. At every attempt to concen¬ 
trate on the problem, he succeeded only in a hope¬ 
less muddling of his wits. Hitherto, he had 
greatly prided himself on the clarity of his mental 
processes; he had highly esteemed his powers of 
ratiocination; he had flattered himself on the 
shrewdness of his reasoning, the exactness of his 
logic. Now, however, he was humbled. It was 
the first time that the strength of his mind had 
been pitted against the practicalities of life, and 
the result was ignominious. The previous suc¬ 
cesses had been of an academic sort, concerned 
with the subtleties of theory. It was humiliating 
to learn that his intellectual powers were helpless 
in the face of actuality. The psychologist real¬ 
ized with a mingling of shame and dismay that 
thus far throughout the affair his part had been 
chiefly that of a puppet with movements directed 
as Fate pulled the strings. He derived his sole 
satisfaction with himself from the fact that his 
discovery of the crime had been due to accurate 
125 


126 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


perception of facts and swift deduction from 
them. But, even here, his self-complacency was 
threatened, since he could not avoid wondering if, 
by any chance, the knowledge that guided him 
had been in reality a mental impression received 
from without. He was aware that it is most dif¬ 
ficult at times to determine the source of a par¬ 
ticular thought. It may come from an obscure 
operation of the mental law governing the asso¬ 
ciation of ideas; or it may come from an activity 
of the reasoning power carried out so easily and 
quickly that the consciousness remains unaware of 
it; or it may come from without, a manifestation 
of telepathy. In any case, the source remains 
indeterminable. So, now, the Doctor strongly 
suspected that reason had had nothing whatever 
to do with his conduct at any stage of the proceed¬ 
ings. 

Nevertheless, the psychologist, in spite of his 
bewilderment over the situation and his dissatis¬ 
faction with his own accomplishment, was enjoy¬ 
ing himself hugely. For the first time in his life, 
he was intimately related to the things that really 
count, matters of life and death, of joy and sor¬ 
row, of love and hate. The association thrilled 
him. He was so identified with the crucial emo¬ 
tions of others that they became his own. His 
suddenly developed friendship for Farnham, his 
warm fondness for Vera Daniloff made their af- 



A Perplexing Situation 


127 


fairs his personal concern. His sympathy for the 
architect and the girl was increased by a visit to 
the former on the day following the interview of 
the lovers. Farnham candidly related the essen¬ 
tial facts as to that interview. The young man’s 
mood was, however, even more depressed than 
before, for he could imagine no possibility of 
escape from the dangers of his situation, and the 
evil of it was enhanced by the knowledge that the 
girl loved him, that disaster to himself must mean 
added suffering for her. 

“It is a strange thing,” Farnham said at last, 
musingly, with a melancholy smile, “that Vera 
should have spoken as she did to you of my voice 
having its echoes in her heart. The phrase came 
to me as a revelation of her love, and that knowl¬ 
edge broke down my restraint, so that I told her 
of my love. We were happy a little while then there 
together—until she remembered my ‘lies.’ But 
our mutual confession came from her belief in the 
truth of the lie. She believed it was I whom she 
met at the house that day. It was not I. Some¬ 
how, she was deceived both by her eyes and by 
her ears. The voice of that unknown man seemed 
to her my voice, and because it seemed to her my 
voice, it echoed in her heart, as she told you. Thus 
she was deceived and thus out of that deception 
came her confession of love for me.” 

“ It is indeed curious, as you say,” Carney 




128 The Mystery of the Third ■Parrot 


agreed. “And in being curious it is of a piece 
with all the rest of this affair. Have you thought 
of any plan? ” he asked abruptly. 

Farnham shook his head. 

“I have the choice between two evils: I can 
stay here to be jailed, or I can run. If I am to 
run, I had better do it soon, or I may not have 
the chance. The only wonder is that the police 
haven’t been after me before this.” 

Carney nodded acquiescence. 

“Just the same, I believe I’d hold on a bit 
longer. Something may turn up.” 

“What can turn up? The murderer?” 

“ Perhaps,” the psychologist asserted, but with¬ 
out conviction in his tone. “The fact that we 
have nothing to go on is not really so important 
as it seems. Everything so far has fallen out of 
a clear sky, so to speak. Maybe, the next thing 
to tumble out of the blue will be the murderer 
himself.” 

“Then you still believe that I have told the 
truth, not lies as Vera thinks?” 

“ Certainly,” Carney answered stoutly. 

“I wish you could impress your conviction on 
Vera,” Farnham said, with a sigh. 

“ I can try, at least. I think I shall drop down 
there now on the chance of finding her in.” With 
this intention, Carney took his departure. 

It was a wan and subdued Vera Daniloff who 



A Perplexing Situation 


129 


presently received this visitor. There were dark 
shadows beneath the eyes, and those eyes them¬ 
selves were dimmed a little as if from much weep¬ 
ing. Her voice, too, as she greeted the Doctor 
lacked something of its usual vivacious quality. 
Yet she spoke briskly, with an obvious attempt at 
her usual manner. 

“You see me at my worst. All the night I 
have tried to think, but I do not think well. This 
morning, I am still miserable, I understand less 
than ever. I have tried to take a suspender, as 
you put it.” 

The psychologist, who was becoming accus¬ 
tomed to her vagaries in the use of idioms, guessed 
her meaning. 

“To take a brace,” he corrected. 

Vera flirted her fingers disdainfully. 

“Ah, yes. But brace or suspender, it is all the 
same. Anyhow, I am half-seas over.” 

“After a severe nervous strain,” Carney ex¬ 
plained sympathetically, “the reaction of alcohol 
is sometimes excessive. It would be better per¬ 
haps if you were to lie down for a little while, 
until the effect wears off.” 

The girl regarded him with rounded eyes. 

“I shall soon understand nothing whatever,” 
she declared mournfully. “Why do you talk of 
alcohol, of the effect wearing off?” 

“You said, you were half-seas over—” 



130 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“ Certainly. It is an idiom, is it not?” 

“A familiar expression, without doubt, to indi¬ 
cate gently a state of drunkenness.” 

Vera uttered an ejaculation of distress. 

“ There is something wrong,” she protested. “ I 
am not drunk. It is only that I do not understand, 
that I am so confused, so puzzled.” 

A flash of illumination came to Carney. 

“I suspect that you meant to describe yourself 
as being all at sea.” 

“ It may be so. That expression is familiar also. 
And it is not the same as being half-seas over?” 

“The phrases are not interchangeable,” the psy¬ 
chologist answered, “although,” he continued sly¬ 
ly, “both are sometimes applicable in a single 
case. But, jesting apart, my dear Miss Daniloff, 
you must try not to waste your strength in worry.” 

“What would you?” she demanded, with spir¬ 
it. “It is enough to drive one mad. I lose my 
fortune — pouf — that is little. I lose a faithful 
servant, who is more than a servant, a faithful 
friend, killed because of his service for me. That 
loss is much — oh, so much! And, too, I lose 
more than these things, I lose infinitely more — 
something most precious, something of which I 
cannot speak, even to you, Doctor Carney.” 

The psychologist found himself acutely em¬ 
barrassed before this outbreak of emotion. He 
could think of nothing comforting to say. In sheer 



A Perplexing Situation 


131 


desperation, he took the saying that “ Murder 
will out,” as a text, and waxed almost eloquent, 
if a little incoherent, on this theme. He asserted 
with emphasis that the assassin of Andrieff would 
be found and haled before the bar of justice; he 
asserted with greater emphasis that the evidence 
against Farnham was wholly of a deceptive cir¬ 
cumstantial sort, that innocence would be estab¬ 
lished. As he talked, the girl recovered her poise, 
but his assertions unaccompanied by proof failed 
to convince her. When, at last, he paused, she 
offered a single question, with a bitterness that de¬ 
nied any hope of a reply. 

“ If he is innocent as you say, why has Edward 
lied to me?” Carney remained silent, realizing 
the uselessness of any effort to prove her wrong. 
Presently, she went on speaking. “ It is no longer 
a secret known only to myself, Edward, too, 
knows, I love him. All the world may know. 
And he loves me. It is this love that makes things 
so dreadful. I must trust the man I love. But 
how can I trust him when he tells me lies? It 
seems, then, that he cannot trust me. If he could, 
he would tell me the truth. The mystery of it is 
so horrible! I can understand nothing.” She 
threw out her hands in a gesture of dismissal. “ I 
am half-seas — all seas over!” 

Carney offered no correction of her speech. He 
sat in distress, nibbling savagely at the bristles of 



132 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


his mustache, staring commiseratingly through his 
thick lenses at the pain-stricken face of the girl, 
which even suffering could not rob of its loveliness. 
He was relieved at the sound of her voice when, 
after a short interval of silence she addressed him 
again, for now she spoke calmly in a matter-of- 
fact tone. But his relief vanished instantly as he 
grasped the purport of her words. 

“ I visited that policeman this morning,” she an¬ 
nounced. “He sent for me.” 

“You mean Maxwell?” the startled Doctor ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Yes. He let me have Andrieff’s Book of the 
Gospels . He said it was of no use to the police. 
You know, he had promised me before that I 
might have it. It is there.” She made a gesture 
toward a table against the wall, and Carney, fol¬ 
lowing the direction of her hand, saw the thin 
volume in its binding of worn leather, which he 
recognized as having seen on the floor of An¬ 
drieff’s chamber lying by the man’s dead body. 
But his gaze returned swiftly to the girl as she 
uttered the next words. 

“ He showed me the knife with which Andrieff 
was killed. It was not pleasant to see it. He 
asked me many questions. He seemed to think 
that I should know the knife.” 

“And you did not recognize it?” 

“How could I? I had never seen it before. 



A Perplexing Situation 


133 


But the policeman was silly. He said that the 
knife had been in some place where I have been. 
I do not believe it, and so I told him. He is an 
Indian club — no,” she corrected herself hastily, 
“I think you call it a dumb-bell. I told him that 
I am not on social terms with thieves and murder¬ 
ers, that I do not visit them.” 

“What did he say to that?” 

“Not much. He grunted mostly. That is his 
way of being sarcastic, it is his form of clever rep¬ 
artee. Oh, yes, he said, too, that maybe I didn’t 
know everything about everybody.” 

“He said nothing more?” 

“Nothing more. Anyhow, he said enough — 
too much! ” 

“Yes,” Carney agreed. He made his adieux 
hurriedly, and in great trepidation set forth for 
Farnham’s apartment in West Seventy-second 
Street. There disappointment awaited him. The 
hallman declared that the architect was out, and, 
contrary to his usual custom, he had left no word 
as to when he would return. 




CHAPTER XIII 

AN, ATTEMPTED SOLUTION 

AT HOME, Carney relaxed in his favorite 
XJLchair for a period of meditation, with the 
comfort of his pipe. He still found himself, how¬ 
ever, somewhat depressed by a vague sense of 
loss. This he attributed to his disappointment in 
not having found Farnham. Nevertheless, it was 
borne in on him presently that some other lack 
weighed on his spirits. For a time, the nature of 
such lack eluded him as he cast about in vain quest¬ 
ing for the object that thus impressed him with¬ 
out revealing itself. Then, of a sudden, realiza¬ 
tion of the fact flashed on him. The three cages 
with the parrots had been taken out of the living- 
room of Vera Daniloff’s apartment. During his 
visit there, he had only subconsciously sensed the 
absence of the birds, but the effect of their disap¬ 
pearance had been sufficient to remain with him 
after his departure, and gradually to compel his 
attention, until now, finally, he became fully aware 
of the event. He wondered what had become of 
the parrots, and speculated futilely as to why the 
Russian girl should have thus banished them. Per¬ 
haps, he reflected, Vera, her nerves strained by 
134 


An Attempted Solution 


135 


many trials, had suffered from the noise of the 
two that talked, from the gruesome spectacle pre¬ 
sented by the third, which was dumb. The matter 
of the birds held Doctor Carney’s attention for 
a considerable time, although he reached no satis¬ 
factory conclusion concerning the reason for their 
removal. But, once again, he was moved to con¬ 
sider the fact that these birds were somehow in¬ 
timately associated with the murder of Andrieff. 
Perhaps, even, they were clues, if one but knew 
how to interpret them. It might be, indeed, that 
in the utterances of the two parrots that talked— 
so ceaselessly reiterated — lay a significance of 
prime importance, which, if understood, might go 
far toward solving the perplexities of the situation. 
It seemed certain that the two phrases that stood 
forth most prominently in the speech of the birds 
had been taught to them for a purpose. It seemed 
natural, too, to connect those two phrases. Car¬ 
ney was convinced that the words, “ From the 
icon,” and, “ One hundred and thirty-two yards,” 
belonged together, formed in fact a single state¬ 
ment. It was a statement utterly inconclusive of 
itself, a fragment of an unknown whole. It was 
impossible to divine the remainder of that state¬ 
ment; no amount of speculation, of guess work, 
could supply the missing words. It was at this 
point that Carney’s thoughts fixed inevitably on 
the third parrot. It was reasonable to believe that 



136 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


in the dumbness of the mutilated bird was the final 
barrier against any possible completion of the 
statement. It appeared obvious to him that the 
bird had been deprived of its power of speech for 
just that one purpose: to prevent anyone from 
knowing what the three parrots together had been 
taught to tell. Evidently, the silencing of one 
bird had been sufficient. “ From the icon one hun¬ 
dred and thirty-two yards,” was a blind direction. 
The utterance of the third parrot had been essen¬ 
tial to make any meaning of value. Carney was 
compelled to admit that, had the third parrot a 
tongue, the combined words of the three birds 
might remain hopelessly baffling. The two that 
retained the ability to speak uttered only curt 
phrases. The talking of the other bird must have 
been equally limited, confined to a set phrase no 
longer than three or four words. It was probable 
that the mystery would have remained a mystery 
even had the dumb parrot power to cry out its 
part of the message. Nevertheless, there was al¬ 
ways the possibility that the lost words might have 
contained something to make the revelation clear. 
That possibility dominated the doctor, and held 
him sorrowing over the hapless bird, innocent 
victim of criminal intrigues. 

The psychologist considered also the question 
as to who might have been the perpetrator of the 
mutilation. Was the silencing of the parrot the 



An Attempted Solution 


137 


work of Andrieff or of his assassin? It was 
likely that one or the other had done this thing, 
since the appearance of the bird’s wound showed 
that it had been recently inflicted at the time when 
the dead body of Andrieff was discovered. And 
along with this question went another, as to the 
precise motive for the act. It was plain that the 
motive must have been variously actuated accord¬ 
ing to the identity of the perpetrator of the deed. 
In either case, the motive must have been to re¬ 
strain others from knowledge contained in the 
statement formulated by the three birds. But, if 
the mutilation was the act of Andrieff, it must have 
been with the intention of safe-guarding the trust 
confided to him by Vera Daniloff. If, however, 
the act was that of the murderer, it had been com¬ 
mitted in order to aid somehow in the scheme of 
crime against the girl’s property. In either case, 
then, Carney decided, the whole statement of the 
birds had a vital connection with the jewels them¬ 
selves. It would seem that the words, “ From the 
icon, one hundred and thirty-two yards,” were con¬ 
cerned with the treasure in gems. They hinted 
of a precise direction — a direction leading to a 
certain spot. What spot? The hiding place of 
the jewels. 

Carney experienced a new thrill of interest. His 
thoughts hitherto had never carried him quite to 
this point. He had regarded the property of Vera 



138 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Daniloff as lost, stolen. Now he began to think 
of it as merely hidden, as merely put away in 
some safe place, there to be found and duly re¬ 
stored to her. The idea absorbed him. Every¬ 
one, including the girl herself, had taken it for 
granted that the murderer, after the killing, made 
off with the jewels. But had he? Had the crimi¬ 
nal shed the old man’s blood in vain ? Was it pos¬ 
sible that Andrieff, fearful of pursuers that might 
despoil him, had secreted the parcel of precious 
stones in some place known only to himself? So 
far as Carney could remember, there was nothing 
in his letters to Vera to indicate that he carried 
the treasure on his person. It might be that he 
taught the parrots their message, not merely to 
amuse himself in solitude, but also as a means of 
getting information to his mistress in the event of 
his own death at the hands of his enemies. The 
supposition was hardly credible, yet it might hold 
the truth. 

Out of the situation as he reviewed it, Carney 
discovered another possibility, one that disturbed 
him mightily. If the statement of the parrots was 
indeed concerning the gems and clear and com¬ 
plete, before the mutilation of the third bird, had 
the assassin learned from them information as to 
the hiding place of the gems? Had he, then, 
silenced the third parrot, thus rendering ineffectual 
the words of the other two, so that no other per- 



An Attempted Solution 


139 


son might share his knowledge of the hiding place? 
This done, had be gone forth to that unknown 
spot, there found the jewels, and afterward dis¬ 
appeared with his booty? If so, the treasure of 
Vera Daniloff was indeed lost. Following this 
line of reasoning, the only hope must lie in a 
possible difficulty to be encountered by the assassin 
in interpreting the statement of the parrots. It 
might be that the words of the birds, even includ¬ 
ing those of the third parrot, were not a wholly 
clear guide. It might be necessary for him to 
take time for the search. During the interval, 
another might search, perhaps more successfully, 
were he but possessed of the entire message. Thus, 
at last, the psychologist came back with new ardor 
to his familiar desire to know what words would 
be spoken by the third parrot, had it a tongue. 
With full knowledge Carney felt that he could 
go forth to the search in good heart, pitting his 
wits against those of the criminal. Even were the 
murderer successful in his quest, it might still be 
possible to learn of his identity, to track him, to 
hunt him down, to recover the spoils, to deliver 
him to justice. Carney was convinced that his 
theorizing along these lines was justified by the 
facts. There came to him again a memory of the 
face of the man who had so absorbed his attention 
on the elevated train; that man the sight of whom 
had already led him into strange by-ways of crime 



140 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


and mystery, would doubtless lead him farther 
yet into the strange and dark places of life. Car¬ 
ney knew now that the face of the man had been 
the face of a murderer staring in horror at the 
scene of his blood-guiltiness. But there had been 
another emotion besides that of horror in the con¬ 
torted face, the twisted lips, the glaring eyes. 
There had shown clearly an expression of thwarted 
rage. The killer had been baffled; the capital 
crime had not availed him. Now, Carney 
thought, he understood fully: This unknown man 
had slain Andrieff for the jewels of Vera Daniloff, 
but he had failed to secure the treasure. It might 
be that in the statement of the parrots he had a 
guide to their whereabouts, but that guide was in¬ 
sufficient. 

Carney, in the pride of his own mental ability, 
dared believe that he, on the contrary, could find 
sufficient guidance in the words of the parrots. 
There might be time yet to worst the criminal at 
the game. But to do it he must have the full 
statement, must have knowledge of those words 
that the third parrot could not utter. Carney re¬ 
alized that he was helpless in the face of this lack. 
Here, intuitive perception and careful reasoning 
were alike at fault. There was the imperative 
need of more knowledge. Another clue must be 
sought, must be found. The psychologist sighed 
in despair. There was no other clue, nothing 



An Attempted Solution 


141 


tangible to offer a hint that might take the place 
of the third parrot’s silence. He rested for a 
long time a prey to despair, his thoughts heavy 
and faltering. Nothing tangible — the words rang 
in his brain as a refrain of misery. And then, 
out of the darkness that lay so heavily on his 
spirit, there flashed a light. It was as if he saw 
within a flaming radiance a little volume in covers 
of worn leather, stamped with letters of strange 
form. And he recognized it. He had seen it 
twice: once, on the floor of Andrieff’s room, beside 
the dead body; once, on the table in Vera Dani- 
loff’s living-room. 

It was Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels . 



CHAPTER XI\3 

AN UNEXPECTED ENEMY 

C ARNEY sprang up from his chair, alert with 
a new energy of purpose, seized his hat, 
gloves and stick, and left the apartment. He 
turned west on issuing from the building, and made 
his way rapidly to the elevated station on Co¬ 
lumbus Avenue. He had determined to test his re¬ 
cent inspiration by securing Andrieff’s Book of the 
Gospels as soon as possible in order to search it 
for a possible suggestion of any sort. As the train 
carried him downtown, the psychologist admitted 
frankly to himself that his mission was actuated 
by absurdity. There was nothing plausible in the 
idea that the volume could offer a clue as to the 
identity of the murderer of Andrieff or as to the 
location of Vera Daniloff’s jewels. Had there 
been distinguishable fingermarks other than those 
of the owner, the police would have availed them¬ 
selves of these, and, in such event, they would 
have retained the book itself as evidence. For the 
rest, what shred of useful information could the 
book carry? Had there been anything in the 
nature of a memorandum, or writing of other sort 
between the leaves, it would not have escaped 
142 


An Unexpected Enemy 


143 


police scrutiny. It would be impossible to learn 
anything from the text itself, since this would be 
no different from the narrative given by the four 
evangelists in his own English version of the New 
Testament. The appearance of the pages would 
be strange to him because the language was Rus¬ 
sian, with which he was wholly unfamiliar except 
for the two brief phrases chattered by the parrots 
of Andrieff. No, it was unreasonable to expect 
any advantage from the Book of the Gospels . 
There was absolutely no justification of his sudden 
and keen interest in the volume, for his anxiety to 
be possessed of it. Nevertheless, the logical argu¬ 
ments put forth by his brain seemed ineffective 
against the eagerness aroused by his original im¬ 
pulse. His anxiety to lay hold of the book re¬ 
mained undiminished; even, it increased as he 
drew nearer to Vera DanilofPs apartment. After 
all, the Doctor realized, it was a matter of feel¬ 
ing that directed his course, and reason had little, 
if any, concern with it. The single support offered 
by his intellect was derived from the fact that this 
book was in truth the one tangible object to which 
he could turn for help. That no help was really 
to be expected from this source did not alter the 
fact that he could turn to nothing else for enlight¬ 
enment. 

At Vera DanilofPs apartment, the stolid peasant 
woman muttered gutturally in response to the Doc- 



144 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


tor’s request to see her mistress, and ushered him 
into the living-room. Somewhat to his chagrin, 
the girl was not present, but he was greeted pleas¬ 
antly on his entrance by Boris Goshkoff, who rose 
from lounging on the couch, and advanced with 
friendly hand outstretched. The Doctor warmed 
under the radiant kindliness of the actor’s manner. 
Goshkoff explained that their hostess was absent 
from the apartment but was expected to return 
very soon. He expressed himself as gratified that 
the company of the newcomer would relieve the 
tedium of waiting. As he seated himself, Carney 
briefly stated the cause of his call. He had no 
hesitation in speaking candidly to Goshkoff, since 
the young man was, he knew, fully acquainted with 
all the circumstances of the case. This was to be 
expected from his intimacy with the girl, but, be¬ 
yond that, the matter was public property, since 
the murder of Andrieff and the supposed theft of 
the jewels had been thoroughly exploited in the 
newspapers. While speaking, Carney glanced 
about the room and made sure that the cages of 
the parrots had been removed. He spoke of it 
to the Russian. 

“Yes,” Goshkoff answered, “they were ban¬ 
ished to the kitchen some days ago, and even there, 
they are not encouraged. I believe old Olga 
keeps all three cages shrouded. She’s not the 
sort to be nervous, but those two parrots that talk 



An Unexpected Enemy 


145 


are too much for any one’s nerves. I doubt if 
tthey would be popular even in a ship’s forecastle.” 

“And Olga covers the cage of the third par¬ 
rot also?” the Doctor exclaimed. 

Goshkoff nodded. 

“As a matter of fact,” he declared, “I don’t 
blame her. That dumb brute was the worst of 
the three.” His expressive face showed how re¬ 
pellent to him was mere thought of the mutilated 
creature. “It gave one a creepy feeling to see 
the stump of a tongue, and the poor thing with 
its beak strained open all the time, as if it were 
trying to say something. I urged Miss Daniloff 
to get the parrots out of sight and hearing, and at 
last she did. She admitted that they troubled her, 
too — naturally enough, when one thinks of the 
associations.” 

“Yes,” Doctor Carney agreed. “It was the 
third parrot that bothered me. That wretched 
bird interested me particularly because it was ac¬ 
tually the thing that led me to the place where 
Andrieff was murdered. Then, too, the sight of 
it there in the room that day with the fresh wound 
showing added to the horror of the whole scene. 
Whenever I saw it here, it recalled the tragedy 
too vividly. I’m glad it’s out of sight.” 

“But not out of mind,” Goshkoff commented 
grimly. “Here we sit and talk of it. Dumb 
though it is, it cries out in our thoughts.” 



146 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Carney nodded. 

“ It is in my thoughts pretty steadily. I am for¬ 
ever wondering what that bird would say, were 
its power of speech restorecL ,> 

The Russian regarded the psychologist curious¬ 
ly. But his voice when he spoke was listless, with¬ 
out trace of interest. 

“Whatever it might be, the words would be 
only some nonsense taught by that old sailor. We 
may be sure of that from the fact that the other 
two parrots do nothing but make a din by shout¬ 
ing names and meaningless words. The third par¬ 
rot must have done the same.” 

“But, if you are right,” the Doctor objected, 
“why should anyone bother to cut out the bird’s 
tongue?” 

Goshkoff hesitated for a little, then shook his 
head doubtfully. 

“ It is all a puzzle, of course. But I think it 
likely that the act was committed in a spirit of 
mere wanton cruelty. Perhaps Andrieff himself 
cut off the bird’s tongue. He may have grown to 
dislike it for some reason. It may be that he was 
angered by its refusal to learn what he wished it 
to say.” 

“I cannot believe in such an explanation.” 

“ Or it may have been the work of some other 
lodger in the building,” Goshkoff continued suave¬ 
ly, “who was bothered by the noise of the birds, 



An Unexpected Enemy 


147 


and, when he found Andrieff deaf to protest, de¬ 
cided to take the remedy into his own hands.” 

“ But why should he limit the mutilation to just 
one of the three parrots?” 

“He may have been interrupted, or he may 
have thought that this treatment of a single one 
might be sufficient to bring Andrieff to terms. The 
whole affair gives opportunity for speculation, but 
it is foolish to exaggerate the importance of it.” 

“It may be foolish, as you say,” Doctor Car¬ 
ney declared, and the little patches of hectic color 
high on his cheeks were very bright indeed, “but, 
again, it may not be so foolish to believe that 
there was in fact something of peculiar significance 
in the utterance of the third parrot. To believe 
that affords the simplest possible solution of all 
the facts as we know them. It is, therefore,” he 
continued didactically, “ scientifically correct to ac¬ 
cept this as a working hypothesis. For my own 
part, I’m free to confess that I’d give a good deal 
to know the words that bird once spoke, and can 
speak no more.” His interest in the matter be¬ 
trayed the Doctor into a frankness that he had by 
no means intended with this stranger. “The 
phrases uttered by the other parrot are definite 
and seem to carry a meaning of their own, though 
that meaning is incomplete. I am convinced that 
the meaning might have been made clear by the 
addition of the third parrot’s phrase. It appears 



148 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


to me likely that the joined phrases of all three 
parrots contain something of vital significance, 
something to do with the mystery in which are 
involved both the murder of Andrieff, and the loss 
of Miss Daniloff’s jewels.” 

Goshkoff, who had been reclining in an attitude 
of elegant ease, suddenly sat upright. His face 
hardened a little, and his brows drew into a frown. 
His cultivated voice was musical as always, but 
in it now sounded slightly a metallic quality. 

“You make mountains of mole hills, my dear 
Doctor,” he exclaimed and a gentle laughter fol¬ 
lowed the words. “ I fancy that your imagina¬ 
tion has been overstimulated by your association 
with events of a sort quite apart from your usual 
routine of life. Your enthusiasm is natural 
enough, but it seems hardly possible to justify it 
by reason. I suspect that you have thought too 
much of this mystery, which, when all is said and 
done, is a simple matter of a sordid theft which in¬ 
volved murder. It would, perhaps, be wise of you 
to turn your attention to other things and leave 
the police, whose duty it is, to deal with crime.” 
There was a note of scorn in the Russian’s voice 
that rasped Carney’s nerves, and moved him to 
quick anger. Prudence, however, halted the re¬ 
tort that rose to his lips. He was acutely aware 
that he had been indiscreet, that he had carelessly 
revealed to an unsympathetic listener the secret 



An Unexpected Enemy 


149 


thought that to him had seemed of possibly vital 
importance. His impulsive confidence had met 
contemptuous disdain. He realized that the re¬ 
buke was not wholly unmerited, but such realiza¬ 
tion made it none the less unpleasant. His anger 
grew, but he controlled it by an effort of will. He 
would not let this sneering foreigner perceive the 
extent of his disturbance. So he held the mount¬ 
ing wrath in leash, sitting in silence, with his eyes 
lowered. And, little by little, as he repressed the 
first emotion, that emotion changed into another. 
His choleric mood died, and in its stead came a 
very lively dislike for the man who sat opposite 
him, this exile from a far land with the mobile 
face and the cultured voice, who so flippantly dis¬ 
missed from consideration the murder of a faith¬ 
ful old man and the loss of fortune that had thus 
left in poverty an orphaned girl. And that girl, 
Carney made sure, was one to whom this actor 
had paid assiduous court. Now, in his silky way, 
this fellow declared that such crimes were merely 
matters to be left to the police. The psychologist 
felt, at least for the moment, that he heartily de¬ 
tested Boris Goshkoff. He wished that Vera 
might come quickly. He was fearful of further 
conversation with his vis-a-vis. 

Come she did, almost at once, and her warm 
greeting served to soothe the irritated nerves of 
Doctor Carney. But again he wondered over the 



150 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


change wrought in the girl as she laughingly chat¬ 
tered in Russian for a few moments with Gosh- 
koff. An added color showed in her cheeks, and 
her blue eyes sparkled with gaiety. The watcher 
realized that Vera Daniloff at home among friends 
and kindred must indeed have been another girl, 
quite different from the one with whom he was 
familiar here in an alien land, among strangers, 
and those not of her own race. And still again 
he was compelled to wonder if perhaps, after all, 
there was something in the personality of the actor 
that quickened her, some magnetism that was sub¬ 
tly effective in provoking a pleasurable excitement 
The psychologist, though he had been so recently 
angered by the fellow, was compelled, neverthe¬ 
less, to acknowledge the charm of the man. So, 
the psychologist was inclined to believe that Vera 
was attracted possibly more than she herself ap¬ 
preciated by her compatriot, in spite of the fact 
that she was in love with Farnham. 

Presently, the girl turned to Carney, and her 
smile of deprecation was wistful as she spoke. 

“You must forgive, dear Doctor. It is that I 
cannot resist the lure of my own language.” 

“ Oh, as to that, I have come here tonight to 
get Russian,” was the whimsical reply. With this 
introduction, he explained his wish to take away 
Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels, in order to make 
a thorough examination of it. He had no hesita- 



An Unexpected Enemy 


151 


tion in making his request before Goshkoff, since 
he had already been so indiscreet that this further 
revelation of his purpose was rendered unimpor¬ 
tant. Vera was plainly glad to grant his request, 
though she could not believe that any informa¬ 
tion would come from the worn old volume which 
she immediately put in his hands. As the Doctor 
slipped the book into his coat pocket, the girl ad¬ 
dressed him in a tone of gentle raillery. 

“Aha! then, it is that you are a sloth.” 

Carney resented the accusation, which was, in 
truth, wholly unjustified by the activity both of 
mind and body that had always characterized him. 

“ I am not really lazy,” he declared, “ although, 
of course, I may seem so to you who only see me 
sitting here idly.” 

“But I have never thought of you as lazy,” 
Vera exclaimed in bewilderment. 

“You called me a sloth,” the doctor retorted, 
“the animal universally known as the symbol of 
•utter laziness.” 

“No, no! I never called you an animal of any 
sort. I could not be so rude! I said you were a 
sloth — in your language that means one who 
goes hot-dog on the trail of a criminal.” 

The Doctor shook his head in puzzlement, while 
Goshkoff chuckled softly. 

“Hot-dog?” the psychologist repeated feebly. 
Vera nodded. 



152 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


u Yes. It is, I believe, the national dish of the 
aborigines in your country, of the red men. They 
feast on dogs. And I observe that the dish is 
common among the whites. I often see signs: 

4 Hot-dogs.’ ” 

“ That dish comes from Germany, not from our 
Indians,” Carney explained. “The food is not 
necessarily dog meat.” 

“Anyhow,” Yera insisted, “ I have seen the ex¬ 
pression about a sloth hot-dog on the trail. It 
was not very clear to me about the hot-dog, but 
I gathered the general meaning. You know I am 
ambitious to use such colloquial expressions.” 

“ I am inclined to suspect,” the psychologist ven¬ 
tured, “that you have made two mistakes in re¬ 
peating the phrase.” 

“Oh, I am so ashamed I” the girl exclaimed, 
with genuine dismay. “I am fearful lest my 
language never become idiotic — no, idiomatic. 
Please, Doctor, tell me these mistakes.” 

“ For ‘ hot-dog’ it is necessary to substitute ‘ hot¬ 
foot,’ which implies a rapid pace. And, instead 
of ‘sloth,’ the word should be ‘sleuth.’ You 
meant to call me a sleuth, that is to say, a detec¬ 
tive. Even so, however, the accusation is unfair 
to me. I am not, either by nature or habit, a 
trailer of criminals. But, somehow, I have be¬ 
come involved in a mystery, and that mystery 
holds me. I would do anything, everything pos- 



An Unexpected Enemy 


153 


sible to solve it. It is not reasonable to expect 
help from Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels . I am 
taking it only because it is something tangible as¬ 
sociated with the crime, and for that reason it 
should be scrutinized with every care.” 

“Always, my best wishes for your success go 
with you,” the Russian girl said softly and there 
was a glow of grateful friendliness in her eyes, and 
the warmth of genuine feeling in her handclasp. 

Goshkoff stood up to bow as Carney said fare¬ 
well. 

“And I, too, wish you success, my dear Doctor,” 
he said. The musical tones of the Russian actor 
still sounded in Carney’s ears, as he went the 
length of the hallway to let himself out of the 
apartment. At the door into the hall, he lingered 
for a moment, listening. For there came to him 
from the kitchen down the passageway, the cries 
of the parrots, faintly heard through the shut 
door. He distinguished the phrases of first one 
bird and then the other: 

"S' ikonee.” 

“ Sto tridtsaf dva arshina” 

And now he was able to translate the rough 
cries: 

“ From the icon.” 

“ One hundred and thirty-two yards.” 

The phrases were repeated. It seemed to the 
listener that there was a sinister significance in the 



154 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


monotonous reiteration of these words by the 
birds. For first one of them uttered its set form 
of speech, then immediately the other in its turn. 
But afterward, there followed always an interval 
of silence. It was as if they waited for another 
voice, which came not. Did they wait, and wait 
in vain, for the voice of the third parrot? 



CHAPTER XV 

AN ATTEMPTED MURDER 

C ARNEY walked over to Sixth Avenue, where 
he took the elevated, following his usual 
custom. He still felt a measure of irritation from 
the remarks of Goshkoff, but this was offset to a 
considerable extent through the impressions made 
on him by the sympathetic friendliness of Vera 
Daniloff. He acknowledged to himself that his 
idea as to aid in solving the mystery from An- 
drieff’s Book of the Gospels was fantastic, de¬ 
serving the sneers of Goshkoff. Yet, while he 
acknowledged this, he experienced a great satisfac¬ 
tion in his possession of the volume. Absurd it 
might be; nevertheless, the presence of the book 
in his pocket comforted him in an insidious fashion 
of its own, which he was at a loss to explain ra¬ 
tionally. He felt, somehow, as if he had found 
a new and vital contact with the crime. The Doc¬ 
tor smiled sardonically over the emotion of en¬ 
thusiasm that welled within him. 

“I believe,” he meditated, “that I am becom¬ 
ing sensitive — psychic in the most adominable 
sense of the word. Instead of being influenced 
wholly by conclusions drawn from careful reason- 
155 


156 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ing, I am becoming the prey of subtle impressions 
from persons and from things. I believe in Farn- 
ham’s innocence in spite of overwhelming evidence 
against him. By keeping silent, I have actually 
made myself his accomplice. And I go to and fro 
filled with yearning to know the lost words of a 
dumb parrot. Probably, those words were only 
silly prattle, but I yearn none the less. And, now, 
I am all agog over Andrieff’s book. I can reason¬ 
ably expect nothing from it, but I do expect. Yes, 
I show symptoms of development along psychic 
lines. It’s lucky no one knows of it but myself. 
I must watch out, or I’ll be falling into a trance, 
and talking in a treble with Little Eva as a con¬ 
trol.” 

The Doctor was chuckling over this conceit of 
himself as he left the train at the Eighty-sixth 
Street station. He descended the stairs, and con¬ 
tinued eastward on the way to his apartment by 
the park. He was still amusedly reflecting on the 
phases of his psychic development, and gave no 
heed to his surroundings. The street was deserted 
to all appearance, as his eyes roved idly over the 
stretch o^pavement before him. His ears did not 
catch the softly slithering footsteps of two men, 
who had slipped out of Columbus Avenue behind 
him, and were now following him at a distance 
of a few rods. Moreover, his careless glance 
ahead failed to catch the figure of a man half 



An Attempted Murder 


157 


way down the block in front of him, a tall, some¬ 
what shabby figure, loitering by an areaway with¬ 
in the shadow of the high steps of the house. As 
Carney approached, and while he was still some 
distance away, the lurking man moved stealthily 
from his post into the deeper darkness of the 
basement entrance. Still absorbed in his thoughts, 
Carney went forward at a leisurely pace, quite 
oblivious of the fact that any other persons were 
close at hand. Thus unconscious of externals, he 
approached the house within the shadow of which 
the tall, shabby figure had hidden itself, and be¬ 
hind him came the two men who had followed him 
from Columbus Avenue. In the light of the street 
lamps, these were revealed as short and stocky of 
build, and they, too, were shabby in their dress. 
They looked, indeed, rough fellows with alien faces, 
and there was undoubtedly something sinister in 
the manner of their movement. They went 
stealthily as if in secret pursuit of the man before 
them. It was significant that they exchanged no 
words between themselves, that they walked noise¬ 
lessly, a little way apart, and that presently they 
quickened their speed as if with the purpose of 
overtaking their victim at a predetermined spot. 
It was evident that such spot was directly opposite 
the areaway in which the other man was con¬ 
cealed. 

Suddenly, the two men darted forward, the arm 



158 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


of one rose and fell swiftly. But the blow of the 
blackjack failed of its full effect on the object of 
this vicious attack. For that matter, it seemed 
that the psychic sensibility of Carney over which 
he had been amused, intervened in his behalf, was 
in fact the means of saving him from serious in¬ 
jury, perhaps from death. As the blow fell, he 
felt the menace of the danger, though neither eyes 
nor ears gave warning. Instinctively, he whirled 
and dodged, too late to avoid the stroke entirely, 
but in time to escape the brunt of it. The weapon 
crashed glancingly on his skull and shoulders. 
With a gasping cry of pain, he went down, and 
lay motionless, stunned. The man who had struck 
muttered unintelligibly to his companion, and 
stooped over the prostrate form, his arm raised 
in readiness for a second blow. 

Before that blow could fall, there came an in¬ 
terruption. A form leaped out of the darkness of 
the areaway, and a well-placed blow on the jaw 
of the bending footpad, sent the fellow sprawling 
in the gutter. His companion, terrified by the un¬ 
expected onslaught, set off running toward Colum¬ 
bus Avenue. He was followed by the other who 
scrambled to his feet, and scurried away without 
a backward glance. The two had been willing 
enough to assault one who was unwarned and 
helpless: they had no stomach for battle. 

The rescuer made no effort to pursue the flee- 




An Attempted Murder 


159 


ing men. Instead, he hurried to attend on the 
victim of the attack, who was still lying as he had 
fallen on the sidewalk, but now was groaning fee¬ 
bly. As the tall man bent over, he perceived a 
slight movement of the body, and guessed that 
with returning consciousness there was an instinc¬ 
tive effort to get up. He knelt and with an arm 
passed under the shoulders raised Carney to a 
sitting posture. The eyes of the psychologist 
opened, and he blinked dazedly upward at the 
other’s face, through the thick lenses of his glasses, 
which remained unbroken from the fall and 
unmoved from their accustomed oosition on the 
bridge of the thin nose. 

“ You’ll be all right in a few moments,” the 
tall, shabby man said encouragingly. “The way 
you dodged saved you from the full effect of the 
blow.” 

“Why, it’s Farnham!” the Doctor exclaimed. 
Astonishment over the unexpectedness of the archi¬ 
tect’s presence in this emergency helped to clear 
his brain of the confusion caused by the blow on 
his head. He rallied his strength, and straight¬ 
ened so that he sat unsupported by the other’s 
arm, which, however, still retained its protective 
position. “How did you come here? Someone 
attacked me. I think there were two men. Where 
are they? Did you see them? Highway rob¬ 
bery I ” he moved his left arm, but the pain in his 



160 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


shoulder elicited a groan, and he desisted from the 
effort. An attempt with the other arm caused him 
no suffering, and an exploring hand to his pockets 
quickly convinced him that his money and watch 
were untouched. 

Farnham, who understood the significance of 
his friend’s movements, hastened to reassure him. 

“ The fellows got nothing. I was waiting here 
for you, and was in time to drive them off. But 
explanations can wait. They gave you a nasty 
crack on the head, and the sooner it’s attended toi 
the better. Do you think you are able to get up 
and to walk the little way to your place? There’s 
no cab in sight. Let’s try it, anyhow.” 

“Oh, I can manage all right,” Carney declared 
with spirit. 

Nevertheless, it was with some difficulty that he 
managed to get to his feet, and then to stand 
dizzily, swaying a little, within the firm hold of the 
younger man. 

“Take it easy,” Farnham counseled. “A rap 
like that leaves one a little shaky.” 

“I’ll try it now,” the psychologist said pres¬ 
ently. “Let’s go.” 

The progress of the two was slow, painfully 
slow at the outset, for the little man’s head 
throbbed with excruciating pain, and there was a 
haze before his eyes, so that he felt utterly de¬ 
pendent on his companion, not only for support, 



An Attempted Murder 


161 


but also for guidance. As they advanced, how¬ 
ever, the task of movement lightened little by little, 
and by the time they reached the apartment house, 
he was stepping firmly enough, and his vision had 
cleared. Indeed, the condition of the injured man 
had so improved that Farnham deemed it safe to 
withdraw the aid of his arm, in order to prevent re¬ 
mark by the attendant in the building. For that 
matter, there was nothing about the Doctor's ap¬ 
pearance sufficiently conspicuous to attract atten¬ 
tion in the dimly lighted entrance hall and elevator. 
There was a little dust on his clothes, but the blood 
from his wound was matted in the hair, so as to 
be hardly perceptible beneath the shading brim of 
the soft hat. It was with almost his usual brisk¬ 
ness that the psychologist stepped from the ele¬ 
vator at his floor, and unlocked his apartment. 

Farnham asserted authority, with the explana¬ 
tion that his experience in the war enabled him to 
give adequate treatment. He installed the doctor 
on a couch, examined the wound, which he pro¬ 
nounced merely an abrasion of the scalp, without 
injury to the skull, and then proceeded to wash it 
and to apply antiseptics and bandages secured 
from Carney’s medicine chest. At the end, Car¬ 
ney found himself not much the worse for his ex¬ 
perience, except for an abominable headache. He 
refused to permit Farnham any ministration to the 
injured shoulder, declaring that the pain was 



162 The Mystery of the TJiird Parrot 


slight, and that he himself would attend to it later. 
He insisted, too, on leaving the couch for an easy; 
chair, where he installed himself comfortably with 
a pipe, his bandaged head with its turbanlike effect 
giving him a somewhat ludicrous Oriental aspect. 
His sole concession was to join Farnham in a 
rather stiff brandy peg. Under the influence of 
the stimulant, his face, which had been pale, took 
on its usual color, and the flush high on the cheeks 
deepened a little as he sat alternately puffing at 
the pipe and nibbling at the bristles of his mus¬ 
tache. 

“Now tell me all about it,” he demanded. 

Farnham complied with a brief account of the 
whole affair as he had seen it and of his own ac¬ 
tion. Carney uttered his thanks quietly but with 
a sincerity of tone that left no doubt as to his 
gratitude. Then a sudden curiosity assailed him. 

“ How did you happen to be right on the spot 
like that?” he questioned. “It was providential. 
They might have killed me.” 

At the question, Farnham’s face hardened. He 
spoke bitterly. 

“I was hiding there. To explain, I must tell 
you the tale of my troubles. Anyhow, it was for 
this that I wished to see you tonight. But I was 
afraid to go to your apartment. I meant to way¬ 
lay you on your coming out or going in, and take 
you into the park for a talk—the last one.” 



An "Attempted Murder 


163 


“The last one?” Carney repeated in bewilder¬ 
ment. 

“Yes, the last one, at least for a time,” was 
the reply. “Don’t you notice anything queer 
about my appearance?” 

The psychologist regarded the speaker more 
closely than hitherto. Then he betrayed evidences 
of embarrassment. 

“Why, it may be — that is to say, your cloth¬ 
ing is — um — a bit rough, so to speak.” 

Farnham laughed shortly. 

“These clothes,” he explained, “are the worst 
I could dig out of my wardrobe. They are meant 
as a disguise. For the same reason, I stooped 
more than usual, and walked with a shamble, and 
hid in an areaway.” 

“ Good grief! ” Carney exclaimed. He sat up¬ 
right in his chair, and thrust his pipe forward in 
a gesture of inquiry. “ Do you mean that-? ” 

“Yes.” Farnham nodded gloomily. “Prac¬ 
tically, though not technically, I’m a fugitive from 
justice. To tell the truth, I got scared — that is, 
more scared than I have been before. You see, 
the only hope I have is in the discovery of some 
evidence pointing to another person as guilty of 
the murder of Andrieff. At present, all the evi¬ 
dence points to me. And, I believe, that, in the 
usual course of things, the person first accused is 
under a serious handicap from that very fact. The 




164 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


efforts of the prosecution are concentrated against 
him. There is no further hunt for another victim. 
So, I wish to avoid arrest. I know that flight, of 
itself, condemns me, but I have no choice. I 
know, too, that there may never come any develop¬ 
ment in the case to clear me. I must take that 
risk — it is the lesser of two evils.” 

“Something has happened to alarm you?” 

“Yes. My studio was searched during my ab¬ 
sence yesterday. The sheath of the knife with 
which Andrieff was killed was carried off. The 
work was done skillfully, but I discovered traces 
of it that left no room for doubt as to the facts. 
I gathered a few valuables, which I put in a valise, 
now in the checking-room at the Grand Central 
station. I put on these old clothes as the best I 
could do in the way of a disguise. If I had the 
art of that Russian actor, Goshkoff, I suppose I 
could alter my appearance so as to walk the streets 
unchallenged with all the detectives on the lookout 
for me. But I couldn’t manage so much as a 
false mustache: I probably would be arrested by 
the first intelligent officer I met as a suspicious per¬ 
son. My only resource is to get away and hide 
in some obscure spot. I delayed departure only 
in order to see you again.” 

“ It is a pity—it seems very dreadful,” Carney 
declared, “but it may be that disappearance for 
a time is advisable — and, if I may ask—have 



An Attempted Murder 


165 


you decided on your place of retreat? ” 

“ I have a choice of two locations, and both of 
them have the advantage of being hardly known 
at all in connection with myself. It would be 
difficult for the police to learn of my whereabouts. 
One is a shack high up on a mountain in Ulster 
County. I bought it from an artist who was hard 
up. You know, there is a colony of painters with 
Woodstock as a center. I have only been there 
once, and no one in the neighborhood knows me.” 

“And the other refuge?” 

“A little bungalow on the Menunketisic River.” 

“ I suppose you know where that is,” the Doc¬ 
tor said dryly, as Farnham paused, “I certainly 
don’t. It sounds like a good hiding place.” 

“I trust it may prove so,” was the answer, 
given with a wan smile, “ for I have almost de¬ 
cided in favor of it. The river empties into Long 
Island Sound, and the bungalow is only a few 
miles from the mouth. I have gone there often 
for a little relaxation, but I have not joined in 
the social activities of the resorts along the shore 
of the Sound, and I believe that I could conceal 
my identity there easily enough. The bungalow 
offers the advantage of being quickly and easily 
reached, either by train or by boat.” 

“Just where is this river?” the doctor asked. 

“In Connecticut, something more than half 
way from New Haven to New London.” 



166 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“ Ha! ” the psychologist ejaculated. “ Connecti¬ 
cut, eh? Andrieff went to Connecticut. Now, 
that’s a bit curious — the coincidence, you know. 
Do you know a little town named Clinton, some¬ 
where along the shore?” 

“ Yes,” the architect answered without interest. 
“The bungalow lies only a few miles from it.” 

“Ha!” Carney ejaculated a second time, even 
more vigorously than before. Then he remained 
silent, pondering deeply. At last, he voiced 
another question. “ How does one get from Clin¬ 
ton to your bungalow?” 

“The road running east from the village 
branches at the end of the main street, and the 
northern branch goes to the river. The bungalow 
is only a little way to the south along the river 
bank.” 

“On the west bank of the stream?” Farnham 
nodded assent. “There are other bungalows?” 

“No; only some farm houses further up the 
stream.” Then, suddenly, Farnham straightened 
in his chair. “But why do you ask?” he de¬ 
manded. “Surely, you don’t intend to visit me 
there. You mustn’t—it would be too dangerous. 
It is likely the police will keep an eye on you in 
the hope of getting some trace of me.” 

Doctor Carney nodded in agreement, but he 
carefully refrained from any direct assurance. In¬ 
stead, he said quietly: 



Art Attempted Murder 


167 


“I think you would be wise to decide on the 
bungalow as a hiding place. It is, as you have 
said, easy of access, while being sufficiently remote 
for the purpose of retirement.” 

“I shall go there, then,” Farnham declared, 
“ and I shall start by the first train, without return¬ 
ing to the studio. Of course, while I am there, I 
may be able to get some information from the 
newspapers, but I shall also ask your help in keep¬ 
ing me informed as to anything of importance that 
happens here.” 

“By letter*?” 

“ By letter, addressed to Clinton, Connecticut. I 
shall use the name, Henry Parker. Will you make 
a note of it?” 

The psychologist waved aside the suggestion, 
for he prided himself on his memory. 

“I shall remember it,” he asserted with con¬ 
viction. 

But another motive besides pride in his memory 
actuated his disdain over the idea of writing down 
a memorandum. Again an impulse was surging 
in him. It had come wholly unheralded; it was 
perhaps altogether unjustifiable by reason, but it 
dominated him none the less. He had already de¬ 
termined that he, too, must journey into Connecti¬ 
cut, along the shore of the Sound. Andrieff had 
gone to Clinton. Well, then, he also would go 
to Clinton. In that region, and there only, as 



168 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


it seemed to him in his new enthusiasm, he might 
chance upon something tangible that had to do 
with the mystery. The Doctor respected Farn- 
ham’s fears, and, when presently they parted, it 
was without any hint on his part to the young man 
as to the project which now engrossed him. 



CHAPTER XVI 


AT HEADQUARTERS 

A FTER the departure of Farnham, Carney had 
JfX, scant thought for the predicament in which 
the architect found himself. The whole atten¬ 
tion of the psychologist now was centered on the 
idea that had come to him with the suddenness 
and the convincingness of a real inspiration. He 
was absorbed in speculations as to the possibilities 
of discovery in connection with the mystery that 
might be afforded by investigations on the spot 
at Clinton. Certainly, there might be traces of 
a helpful sort still to be found in the shack on the 
shore of the Sound whither Andrieff had resorted 
in order to throw pursuers off his track. More¬ 
over, there was Andrieff’s brother, in whom, 
doubtless, the old sailor had confided. The Doc¬ 
tor was ashamed of his own lack in not having 
hitherto given heed to this field of operations. He 
decided that within a few days he would make a 
journey into that region where Andrieff had hid¬ 
den himself. As he was getting ready for bed, 
Carney felt the weight of the Book of the Gospels 
in his coat-pocket, but he gave the volume no at¬ 
tention beyond pulling it out and laying it on the 
169 


170 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


top of a low bookcase. It did occur to him that 
he was treating this bit of tangible evidence rather 
shabbily, after his impetuous anxiety to be 
possessed of it, but he put the thought aside in 
the newer interest aroused by his projected ex¬ 
ploration in the Clinton neighborhood. His head 
was still aching severely, and he looked forward 
with dismay to a sleepless, restless night of suffer¬ 
ing. 

“However,” he mused stoically, “I shall con¬ 
centrate my mind on the various problems offered 
by this affair, and thus by the exercise of clear 
thinking I may make the night a profitable one.” 
With this resolve, he put out the light, and got 
into bed, where he instantly fell fast asleep. It 
is true that his slumber was troubled, for the ache 
of his wound was persistent. He was tormented 
with nightmares, in which footpads and assassins 
menaced him at every turn. Nevertheless, he 
awoke refreshed. The throbbing pain of the 
wound had ceased, and only the inevitable soreness 
remained. Of the nightmare, he had only a single 
recollection, and this was in fact a quickening of 
his own memory as to something that had actually 
occurred. He recalled that, in every instance, the 
face of footpad or assassin had been characterized 
by Slavic features. It was brought to his remem¬ 
brance that in the adventure of the evening, even 
as he whirled only to be struck down by the black- 



At Headquarters 


171 


jack, he had caught a glimpse of his assailant’s 
face, and he knew now that it was the face of a 
Russian. 

The fact impressed Carney mightily. It was 
quite possible, of course, that a holdup man in 
the streets of New York might be of any national¬ 
ity. Still, he was inclined to the opinion that the 
chances were greatly against such acts of violence 
being undertaken by this particular nationality. 
The suspicion grew in him that the attack on him 
had been directed against his life rather than 
against his property; that the purpose of his as¬ 
sailants had been murder rather than merely rob¬ 
bery. The possibility thrilled Carney anew. He 
had already experienced many thrills from unac¬ 
customed voyaging into the dark ways of crime, 
but this final thrill shook him as no other had. He 
was, indeed, all tremulous with excitement, and it 
was an excitement altogether pleasurable. He 
had already derived keen enjoyment from the 
novelty of his experiences. The drab fabric of 
his life, in which stood forth only the dun pattern 
woven by mental questings, had been suddenly 
made brilliant, shot through with the crimson flares 
of crime. And to these had been added the softer 
and more beautiful radiance from new human 
interest, his regard for the young man whom he 
believed to be unjustly suspected, and for the girl, 
who suffered not only the loss of her fortune, but 



172 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


also the threatened loss of her heart’s desire. And 
now, at last, was added this fiery brilliance of his 
own personal peril. He was prone to believe that 
his life was actually threatened. He felt that he 
should be terrified. On the contrary, he fairly 
gloated over the fact. Under the menace of death 
he felt himself alive as never before. He was not 
greatly disconcerted by the fact that he found it 
difficult to explain why anyone should seek to de¬ 
stroy him. It satisfied him to believe that his con¬ 
nection with the murder of Andrieff was, in some 
mysterious fashion, responsible. It might well be, 
he argued, that his activities had incurred the en¬ 
mity of desperate men. It might be, even, that 
the man he believed to be the assassin, whom he 
had watched in the elevated train, whom he hoped 
eventually to track down, had noted him, had 
learned his identity, had feared him, and had 
marked him for slaughter. The little psychologist, 
full of a new joy of life, since death loomed as a 
background, swelled with importance. He re¬ 
flected, however, that it would be prudent to go 
armed. He possessed a revolver and an auto¬ 
matic, in spite of the Sullivan law, and he was 
moderately skilled in the use of them. It occurred 
to him that it would be wise to obtain a permit for 
the bearing of a weapon. He could undoubtedly 
obtain *his by application to his friend at head¬ 
quarters, Deputy Commissioner Maxwell. In ad- 



At Headquarters 


173 


dition, an interview with that official might pro¬ 
vide him with important information. He would 
be able perhaps to learn definitely as to the nature 
of the evidence against Farnham on which the 
police were acting. It did not occur to him just 
then that the police might be more ready to obtain 
information than to give it. 

Immediately after breakfast, Carney prepared 
to sally forth. He put on his hat gingerly by 
reason of the scalp wound and somewhat inse¬ 
curely by reason of the bandage. He regarded the 
effect in the mirror with misgiving. 

“A turban would be more becoming and more 
comfortable under the circumstances,” he reflected, 
“but I suppose it would attract even more atten¬ 
tion. At least, I’ll get a fresh bandage put on by 
the doctor, downstairs.” This he did, and after¬ 
ward traveled downtown, and duly presented him¬ 
self in the office of the deputy inspector. 

“Too much brains,” Maxwell declared, grin¬ 
ning as he shook hands with his visitor and eyed 
the bandage; “they’re beginning to bust out.” 

Carney smiled faintly at this vulgar form of 
humor. At least, it served to introduce the sub¬ 
ject on which he had come. He briefly related the 
incident of the attack on him, though without re¬ 
vealing his belief in a murderous intent. He con¬ 
cluded by announcing his wish to obtain a permit 
for the carrying of a weapon. 



174 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Maxwell, from the vantage of his burly bulk, 
surveyed the little man patronizingly. 

“Sure,” he vouchsafed, “I’ll fix it for you. 
You’re the sort that ought to carry a gun, and 

usually doesn’t.You haven’t caught 

sight yet of that assassin you’re looking for, have 
you? Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. The depart¬ 
ment has evidence enough for an arrest.” 

“You mean, you have discovered the identity 
of the fellow?” Doctor Carney exclaimed, with 
a fine assumption of excitement. 

“Not of that fellow you saw,” Maxwell re¬ 
torted dryly. “Our quarry is of quite a different 
sort.” 

“Who is it, then?” 

“ If I tell you,” the Deputy Inspector answered, 
“you must regard the information as strictly con¬ 
fidential. We do not wish any news of this to leak 
out just yet. The person toward whom the evi¬ 
dence points is that young architect chap, Edward 
Farnham, who was a member of your party the 
day you discovered the murder of Andrieff.” 

The Doctor, although prepared for this an¬ 
nouncement, deemed it discreet to manifest sur¬ 
prise, and he uttered an incredulous ejaculation. 

“Farnham! Why, the idea is preposterous. 
He’s not the type to be guilty of such a crime.” 

Maxwell sniffed. 

“Your contact with crime hasn’t been extensive, 



At Headquarters 


175 


or you wouldn’t say that. The brand of Cain on 
the forehead gives punch to the Bible story, but 
it is unfortunately not visible on the murderers for 
whom we hunt. Assassins are a mixed lot. Some 
are roughnecks, and some are gentlemen of breed¬ 
ing and education. One wholesale murderer 
whom I knew, who killed ruthlessly for a few 
paltry dollars of insurance money, was a small 
man, with a warm handclasp and kindly eyes and 
soft, pleasant voice. His manner was sympathetic 
and charming—everybody liked him. No, the 
personality of the accused counts for little, or 
nothing, in the face of evidence against him.” 

“ But, surely, there is no evidence against Farn- 
ham,” the psychologist objected. 

“That’s where you’re wrong. There is evi¬ 
dence aplenty against him, and it’s of a sort that’s 
likely to send him to the chair.” 

Again Carney uttered an ejaculation, and this 
time it was sincere, an expression of horrified dis¬ 
may at such bald announcement of his friend’s 
peril. 

“It seems impossible,” he faltered. Then he 
continued, more stoutly: “It is impossible. I 
know the man, and I know that he could not com¬ 
mit a crime so brutal, so sordid, so cold-blooded.” 

Maxwell nodded understandingly. 

“ I should feel the same way about it,” he ad¬ 
mitted. “ Farnham appears a likable and whole- 



176 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


some lad. But feelings don’t alter facts in murder 
cases. It’s the evidence that counts, and we have 
it against him, and the motive, too. But I won’t 
go into that. I’ve sent out for him, though he 
won’t be put under arrest at this time perhaps. 
I’ll have him down here for a grilling. Believe me, 
Doc, it’ll take some squirming for him to wriggle 
out of the mess. I’m free to confess, I shouldn’t 
have suspected him if it hadn’t been for an anony¬ 
mous note that started us on the trail.” 

“An anonymous note!” the psychologist re¬ 
peated contemptuously, to mask his surprise over 
this unexpected development. “ But, surely, a 
communication of that sort is something to be dis¬ 
regarded utterly.” 

“In highfalutin codes of honorable conduct, 
yes,” the official agreed with tolerant good humor. 
“ But in police circles the case is different. There 
are all sorts of reasons why persons wish to reveal 
the guilt of other persons, and there are all sorts 
of reasons, too, why they may wish to remain un¬ 
known in connection with the information they 
give. So, the anonymous letter, usually in a dis¬ 
guised handwriting, is the commonest expedient. 
This letter to the department was an illiterate 
scrawl, so illiterate, in fact, that I suspect the 
writer to be well educated.” 

“What did it say?” 

“Warned us to watch Farnham, and directly 



At Headquarters 


177 


accused him of having murdered Andrieff.” 

“But such a charge is not evidence.” 

“That was not all. The writer asserted that 
the knife with which the murder was committed 
belonged to Farnham. It was further stated that 
his presence in the house where Andrieff lodged in 
the afternoon of the day preceding the discovery 
of the body by you could be proved by the testi¬ 
mony of a woman tenant in the building, who 
lived at the back, up one flight.” 

“But,” Carney objected, “you had already, of 
course, questioned her.” 

“Yes, and got nothing from her. Those for¬ 
eigners are never anxious to tell all they know 
to the police, and we were easy with her, having no 
suspicion that she could tell more than she did. 
When we had her up again, we dragged the story 
out of her. She’ll swear that Farnham was in the 
house the day of the murder. By the way, you 
and Miss Daniloff should have included in your 
account of what happened the fact that this woman 
recognized Farnham when he was with you and 
spoke of his having been there the day before.” 

“ But he denied it,” Carney stammered. “ Nat- 
turally, I believed him, and gave her no credence.” 
He could not bring himself to include Miss Dani¬ 
loff as also disbelieving the woman, since he knew 
that she regarded Farnham’s denial to the woman 
as a lie. 



178 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“I suppose you would naturally believe him 
rather than the woman,” Maxwell conceded a 
little wearily. “ I might myself, if it weren’t for 
the hard schooling I have received in my work 
here. To sum it up, it looks to me as if this young 
fellow was in a bad way. We shall be able to 
fix the ownership of the knife on him. That’ll be 
a mighty hard thing for him to explain.” 

Abruptly, the deputy inspector changed his tone, 
and spoke less gruffly. “You like the chap, don’t 
you, Doctor?” 

“Farnham? Yes. I both like him and trust 
him.” The response was made with the earnest¬ 
ness of deep feeling. 

There was sympathy in the penetrating glance 
of the official. 

“ I’m inclined to like him, too,” he said. “ But 
I can’t trust him — my position here forbids. And 
as for the liking, mine can’t help him, nor can 
yours, for that matter, unless-” 

“Unless?” the psychologist prompted, after a 
vain wait for Maxwell to conclude the sentence. 

“-unless you get busy and recognize and 

locate your chap of the elevated train. My own 
opinion is, that’s quite impossible. But, impossible 
or not, it seems the only chance in Farnham’s 
favor.” 





CHAPTER XVII 

WHAT THE DOCTOR FOUND 

D OCTOR CARNEY, after his interview with 
Maxwell, was more than ever impressed 
with the seriousness of Farnham’s position. He 
thoroughly agreed with the blunt statement of the 
deputy inspector, to the effect that the young man 
could be saved from prosecution for the murder 
of Andrieff only by prompt discovery of another 
person as actually the assassin. More than ever 
now, the psychologist was eager to pursue his in¬ 
vestigations in the Sound region whither Andrieff 
had fled for concealment from his enemies. Car¬ 
ney would have started for Clinton that very day, 
had it not been for an imperative engagement with 
his lawyer. He determined, however, to take his 
departure the following morning. He had no 
particular plan of action in mind. Indeed, he 
could not formulate any reasonable hope of suc¬ 
cess from his mission. But he was none the less 
keen for the undertaking, and hope, unsupported 
by reason, mounted high in his breast. The sole 
definite part of his project was to hunt out Farn- 
ham at once and make that young man a party in 
the work of searching for any possible clues. 

179 


180 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Impatience beset the psychologist over the en¬ 
forced delay in getting to work along the lines of 
his new enthusiasm. Then, as he rambled rest¬ 
lessly about the living-room, his eyes chanced to 
fall on the Book of the Gospels, which had lain 
disregarded on the bookcase, where he had placed 
it the night before. His conscience pricked him a 
little for such complete neglect of the object, over 
which so recently he had been greatly excited, for 
the possession of which he had been so anxious, 
to the examination of which he had looked for¬ 
ward so expectantly. Truth to tell, he was no 
little ashamed of his varying moods. “ Unstable 
as water,” he muttered. In a spirit of compunc¬ 
tion over his neglect, rather than with any antici¬ 
pation now of finding here help toward solution 
of the mystery, Carney took the book and sat 
down to study it. But, as he held it in his lap 
unopened, during a meditative period of inactivity, 
he found his interest reviving little by little, slow¬ 
ly perhaps, yet powerfully. After all, he was hold¬ 
ing there something tangible that had been in¬ 
timately associated with the crime. It seemed to 
him that this book, though of its very nature dumb, 
even as the third parrot had been made dumb, 
was, nevertheless, like that third parrot and its 
two fellows, a witness of the crime. In occult 
fashion, this worn volume knew the truth. If only 
there were some subtle method by which its fund 



What the Doctor Found 


181 


of information might be tapped 1 

As a rule, the Doctor had small patience with 
the claims of mediums and other demonstrators 
of psychic phenomena. He had no tolerance for 
the claims of those sensitive persons who alleged 
their ability to respond to the vibrations given off 
by inanimate things, and thus to translate impres¬ 
sions of events in which such objects have been 
concerned. Doctor Carney was skeptical as to 
any influence exerted by the aura of material 
things on human consciousness. Yet, now, as he 
rested relaxed in his easy chair, with his hands 
clasped about the old book on his knees, it was as 
if some vague force stirred secretly in the depths 
of his being. He felt an impression, vague, most 
delicate, elusive, not to be understood, as of a 
rapport between him and the book. Out of this, 
an impression slowly made itself felt on his con¬ 
sciousness. He became certain that somehow the 
volume could reveal at least a hint of the knowl¬ 
edge it held.He roused with a 

start, and mechanically opened the volume at ran¬ 
dom, then sat staring blankly at the unintelligible 
pages. 

The impression persisted, though reason 
flaunted it. There was, of a certainty, no justi¬ 
fication for a belief that aught of avail could issue 
from this source. There was nothing significant 
in the pages, closely printed in a language un- 



182 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


known to him, where even the letters of the alpha¬ 
bet showed strange forms. The pages were 
soiled, with crumpled edges, as from much fum¬ 
bling by the old Russian sailor’s calloused hands. 
The Doctor’s attention wandered for a few mo¬ 
ments from the mystery that so engrossed him to 
musing on scenes in the varied life of the man to 
whom this book had been an inseparable com¬ 
panion. He had a glimpse of a ship’s forecastle 
where the lantern burned dim in the foul air, as 
Andrieff, with close-held eyes, finger tracing the 
line and muttering lips scanned again the familiar 
sacred texts, which stopped his ears to the ob¬ 
scenities and blasphemies of his fellows crowded 
about. Into what strange places, and how many, 
had this old book voyaged with that faithful soul 
who turned to it so steadily for comfort! 

Again, Carney roused himself. It was silly to 
fall into such idle moods of fantasy. He sat up 
briskly in an effort to shake off the touch of senti¬ 
mentality, and began an alert examination of the 
book. He scrutinized the covers, inside and out, 
and afterward ran through all the pages, to make 
sure that nothing lay hidden within them. His 
search was wholly fruitless. Nowhere could he 
discover anything significant. When, at last, the 
examination was completed, the Doctor closed the 
book with a sigh of dejection. Somehow, in these 
minutes, he had come to anticipate a revelation. 



What the Doctor Found 


183 


That anticipation had been unwarranted, yet it 
had been very real, and by so much his consequent 
disappointment was keen. He moved restlessly 
in his chair, and the joggling of the volume on his 
knees caused it to fall open of its own accord., 
Carney stared down unseeingly at the two pages 
thus set before him. Then, presently his eyes 
came to a focus on the right-hand page. Suddenly, 
his interest was caught and held. He bent over, 
and regarded the page closely. Here was some¬ 
thing different from the ordinary discoloration of 
all the pages from the touch of soiled fingers. 
This was a distinct smudge of dingy color, a little 
way down the page, in the left of the two columns. 
It was nearly an inch in length horizontally, and 
about a half inch in width. It was not uneven, as 
if some sort of coloring matter had fallen on the 
leaf, and been smeared about. Instead, the lines 
of it were fairly even as if the smudge had been 
the result of intention, a mark placed there for 
some unknown purpose. Carney regarded the 
stain with quickening excitement. But sober sense 
chided this new enthusiasm. He rebuked himself 
for his growing habit of impressionability; he was 
becoming too sensitive, sensitive to the point of 
absurdity. There was absolutely no reason why 
he should become excited over a particularly 
noticeable dirty marking in a volume that was 
so soiled throughout. He closed the book in an 



184 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


impulse of impatience against his own childish¬ 
ness. Yet, the impression made on him was in 
no wise lessened. His eyes were unseeing, for 
within his mind that page with its heavy smear 
still remained as the object of contemplation. He 
shrugged in disgust at his own weakness, but he 
could not oust from consciousness this curious 
claim to his attention. For distraction, he opened 
the book and riffled the pages, closed it again, let 
it fall back in his lap. Again, the book opened of 
its own accord, and to the same place. Carney 
found himself staring for a second time at that 
dingy smudge in the left column. 

It occurred to the psychologist that, in all rea¬ 
son, here was something beyond mere coincidence. 
He tested the fact. By repeated trials he proved 
that the volume when left free always opened of 
its own accord to the one place, where the stain 
showed on the right-hand page. It was obvious 
enough that the particular place must contain a 
passage in the Scriptures especially esteemed by 
Andrieff, to which he had turned so often that the 
book itself took on the habit of opening there. 
The fact offered, too, a simple explanation of the 
smudge. The rusty color of the streak suggested 
that it might be blood. If so, it might have come 
from a cut finger of the old sailor, a drop received 
here where the book had fallen open of itself. 
The drop would have been modified into a streak 



What the Doctor Found 


185 


by the later closing of the volume. The objection 
to this theory lay in the evenness with which the 
discoloration was made. But Carney deferred 
consideration of that difficulty. He was absorbed 
in speculation as to just what passage in the Gos¬ 
pels this might be that had been apparently the 
favorite of Andrieff. 

The psychologist set himself to gain knowledge 
on this point, nor was the task arduous. Above 
the stain, in the same column, was the numeral for 
a chapter heading, and it was in a character with 
which he was familiar, the figure 5 . Thus, he 
knew that the desired passage must be in either 
the fourth or the fifth chapter of one among the 
four Gospels. The question as to which was 
easily resolved by taking it for granted that the 
canon of the scriptures in Russian followed the 
order with which he was familiar in the English 
version: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. In ac¬ 
cordance with this sequence, the fifth chapter to 
which the book opened of itself was in the Gospel 
according to St. John, for it was near the end of 
the volume. Moreover, Carney was able, after a 
little study of the headings in the book, to make 
sure that the Russian word in the title to this last 
section was in fact the equivalent of John, rather 
than of Matthew or Mark or Luke. In spite of 
the strange letters, he made sure that the stained 
page to which the book opened was in the Gospel 



186 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


according to John. 

Here, at least, was something definite. Carney 
hurriedly laid aside the Russian Gospels, and got 
his own New Testament from the bookcase. As 
he turned the leaves rapidly to the fifth chapter of 
John, he was conscious of a curious feeling as of 
close contact with the dead man. He was about 
to share the confidence of that old sailor, a con¬ 
fidence all unwittingly given through the medium 
of a stained page in the book he had loved. There 
was a touch of awe in Carney’s emotion as he 
began to read the fifth chapter. He experienced 
a feeling almost of timidity, as if he intruded into 
a sacred place by thus seeking to share in An- 
drieff’s secrets of the spirit. But the psychologist 
had no thought of letting any scruple deter him. 

This is what he read: 

1. After this there was a feast of the Jews; and 
Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 

2 . Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep mar¬ 
ket a pool, which is called in the Hebrew tongue 
Bethesda, having five porches. 

3 . In these lay a great multitude of impotent 
folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the 
movement of the water. 

4 . For an angel went down at a certain season, 
into the pool, and troubled the water: whosoever 
then first after the troubling of the water stepped 
in was made whole of whatever disease he had. 

5 . And a certain man was there, which had an 
infirmity thirty and eight years. 




What the Doctor Found 


187 


6. When Jesus saw him lie, and knew that he 
had been now a long time in that case, he said 
unto him, Wilt thou be made whole ? 

7. The impotent man answered him, Sir, I have 
no man, when the water is troubled, to put me 
into the pool: but while I am coming, another 
steppeth down before me. 

8. Jesus said unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, 
and walk. 

9. And immediately the man was made whole, 
and took up his bed, and walked: and on the same 
day was the Sabbath. 

10. The Jews therefore said unto him that was 
cured, It is the Sabbath day: it is not lawful for 
thee to carry thy bed. 

11. He answered them, He that made me 
whole, the same said unto me, Take up thy bed, 
and walk. 

12. Then asked they him, What man is that 
which said unto thee, take up thy bed, and walk? 

13. And he that was healed wist not who it 
was: for Jesus had conveyed himself away, a 
multitude being in that place. 

14. Afterward Jesus findeth him in the temple, 
and said unto him, Behold, thou art made whole: 
sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee. 

15. The man departed, and told the Jews that 
it was Jesus, that had made him whole. 

16. And therefore did the Jews persecute 
Jesus, and sought to slay him, because he had done 
these things on the Sabbath day. 

17. But Jesus answered them, My Father 
worketh hitherto, and I work. 



188 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


The page ended at this point, and Doctor Car¬ 
ney ceased his reading. He glanced over the con¬ 
cluding portion of the preceding chapter, but gave 
it only perfunctory attention. He was sure that 
it was the fifth chapter, on the right hand page of 
the Russian volume that had so held the interest 
of Andrieff. He speculated as to why this par¬ 
ticular part of the sacred narrative should have 
made so strong an appeal to the old sailor. Had 
it been, perhaps, that Andrieff himself had suf¬ 
fered from some infirmity, and thus had been 
fascinated by the story of another’s healing? Or 
had there been something to provoke especial in¬ 
terest in the account of the troubling of the waters 
at the pool of Bethesda? Or was his absorption 
due to some unknown personal bias on his part 
concerning the observance of the Sabbath? In¬ 
deed, so many various matters were touched on in 
the single page that there was much room for 
speculation. Unfortunately, such speculation 
seemed profitless, of no avail toward penetrating 
to the heart of the mystery. Carney rose with a 
sigh, and returned the New Testament to its place 
in the bookcase. Then, he reseated himself, and, 
again took up the Russian Book of the Gospels . 
As he laid it on his knees, it opened of its own 
accord to the fifth chapter of the gospel according 
to John. Once again, his eyes rested on the rusty 
streak. 



What the Doctor Found 


189 


The psychologist scrutinized the smear with 
quickening interest. Now, he took note of its 
exact position. He observed that the stain lay 
wholly within the fourth verse of the chapter, 
where it partly obscured one line of the text. 
On the other hand, its position emphasized two 
words standing above it. The fancy came to 
Carney that the streak of color might be actually 
a line to emphasize the words just above it. He 
wondered what those words might be. His zeal 
in this direction became such that he had recourse 
again to his English version. The fourth verse 
ran as follows: 

4. For an angel went down at a certain season 
into the pool, and troubled the water; whosoever 
then first after the troubling of the water stepped 
in was made whole of whatever disease he had. 

He attempted to distinguish the two words 
above the smear, but in this effort he was baffled 
by the difference between the two languages, which 
changed the order of the words and even their 
number. He determined to seek help in solving 
this puzzle: he would go to Vera Daniloff. It 
pccurred to him, however, that it might be better 
not to show her at this time the reason for his 
inquiry. It would, he decided, be wiser to get the 
information from her without exhibiting An- 
drieff’s volume. This could be easily done by his 
pointing out to her the two marked words of the 



190 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Russian text. He studied these carefully for a 
few moments, in order that there could be no pos¬ 
sibility of his failure to identify them. 

“I have just time to stop in there, and then 
get on downtown/’ he muttered, rising briskly. 
He was reminded of the bandage as he started to 
put on his hat, and decided to do without it. He 
found that by a careful adjustment of his hair the 
lump on his head was sufficiently concealed, and 
it was with renewed satisfaction in his personal 
appearance that he presently left the apartment. 

Vera Daniloff was visibly depressed, but she 
welcomed the unexpected visitor with her usual 
kindliness. When Carney had explained the oc¬ 
casion for his call, she displayed little curiosity 
though she obediently brought her copy of the 
Scriptures, and, at the Doctor’s direction, turned 
to the fourth verse of the fifth chapter of the 
Gospel according to John. She ran her eyes over 
the words, evidently reading them, but as evidently 
without any interest. The psychologist pointed 
with his finger to the two that had been singled 
out to him by the mark in AndriefPs book. In 
answer to his questioning look, Vera answered 
promptly: 

“V> kupal'noo ” 

“And it means? ” the Doctor exclaimed eagerly. 

“ In the pond.” 

Carney was puzzled for a moment. 



What the Doctor Found 


191 


“But there are only two words/’ he objected, 
“ in the Russian, and there are three in the trans¬ 
lation.” 

“Literally,” was the explanation, “the words 
mean, ‘in pond.’ There are no articles before 
the nouns in Russian, neither ‘the,’ nor ‘a,’ nor 
‘an.’ Articles are very silly,” Vera continued, 
with a touch of her usual animation. “One al¬ 
ways knows whether it is a thing, or the thing.” 
The Doctor was not inclined to argue the point. 
His memory had gone back to the English version. 
He remembered the phrase in the fourth verse, 
“into the pool.” That was it, undoubtedly. He 
spoke the words aloud, and Vera nodded. 

“Yes, the Russian word might be translated 
into ‘pool,’ I think.” 

“It is the word used in our English version,” 
the psychologist explained as he prepared to take 
his departure. 

But Vera detained him for a moment. 

“I have not seen Mr. Farnham,” she said, and 
there was a note of desolateness in her voice. 

“ He is away,” Carney replied. He did not care 
to be more explicit, for he was a little suspicious 
as to the present attitude of the girl toward the 
young man. 

“ It may be that you would see him ? ” Vera said. 

“ It is possible, yes,” was the guarded admis¬ 


sion. 



192 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“Then, please,” the girl continued in a flat 
voice, “would you give him my message? Tell 
him, whatever happens to him, I should worry.” 

“But—” the Doctor began in shocked protest, 
only to be interrupted. 

“Yes,” Vera cried with a passion in startling 
contrast to her former manner, “you must tell 
him my exact words. Will you? Promise me!” 

“But-” 

“ Promise me! ” 

“ Oh, well, then — yes,” the harassed Doctor 
capitulated. 

“Just the same, I won’t,” the psychologist mut¬ 
tered to himself savagely as the door of the apart¬ 
ment closed behind him. “ I couldn’t bring myself 
to deliver a message like that to the poor young 
chap from the girl he loves. I’d rather lie to her. 
The vulgarity of it is bad enough, but one can 
forgive that as due to her ignorance of the lan¬ 
guage, but the heartlessness of it — there’s no ex¬ 
cuse for that. ‘I should worry!’ I’m ashamed 
of her.” 




CHAPTER XVIII 

THE PARROT*S MESSAGE 


AFTER dinner that evening, Doctor Carney 
packed a valise, preparatory for his journey 
into Connecticut on the morrow. He included in 
the contents not only the automatic, which he had 
carried during the day, but also his revolver. It 
seemed to him that it might be a measure of pru¬ 
dence to have this at hand as a weapon with which 
to equip Farnham in case of emergency. The 
effect of his nightmares after the assault on him 
and his memory of the Russian features of his 
assailant still influenced him, and he was con¬ 
vinced that his life was actually sought by un¬ 
known enemies. It was possible that they might 
trail him to the shores of the Sound, and there 
renew the attempt to dispose of him, with excel¬ 
lent chances of success were he taken unawares 
and without means of protection. Such an en¬ 
counter, however, would be quite another matter, 
were he accompanied by Farnham, a strong and 
courageous young man, and both of them armed 
and on the lookout. 

The task of packing completed, the Doctor 
established himself at ease in his favorite chair 
193 


194 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


with the companionship of his pipe, and set him¬ 
self to a detailed consideration of what he had 
accomplished by examination of Andrieff’s Book 
of the Gospels . By now, he was certain that some¬ 
thing of vital importance was indicated by the 
phrase in the Russian text, under which lay the 
rusty smear that had arrested his attention. He 
repeated the Russian words as best he could, 
guided in part by his memory of the letters them¬ 
selves, but more by his recollection of Vera Dan- 
iloff’s utterance. 

“ V’ kupal’noo, v’ kupaV noo” he repeated 
again and again, with a sort of childish joy over 
the excursion into an unknown tongue. And this 
pride was increased by the fact that he knew the 
meaning of the strange syllables. “ Into the pool,” 
he translated: “literally ‘ into pool,’ since the Rus¬ 
sian has no article. V } kupaVnoo ” 

Somehow, the Russian words, from a natural 
association of ideas, brought into his consciousness 
those other phrases in the same tongue — those 
spoken by the two parrots. Much to his own 
astonishment, Carney found himself recalling 
these as well. He reflected that he had in fact 
heard them often enough and insistently enough 
to make a strong impression, sufficient even for 
reproduction of them, but he was none the less 
gratified by his ability, and his pride continued to 
increase as he spoke the words aloud. 



The Parrot's Message 


195 


“ S f ikonee . Sto tridtsaf dva arshina ” And 
then he passed to the translation of the two 
phrases: “ From the icon. One hundred and 
thirty-two yards.” 

Next, he tried his new skill in a foreign lan¬ 
guage by pronouncing all three phrases: 

“ V* kupal’noo . S’ ikonee. Sto tridtsaf dva 
arshina” And again the translation: “Into the 
pool. From the icon. One hundred and thirty- 
two yards.” 

For a little space of time Carney amused him¬ 
self by aimless repetitions of the Russian words 
and of the corresponding words in English. Pres¬ 
ently, however, he gave over the pastime, and 
concentrated his mind on the meaning of these 
phrases. It flashed on him at once that the three 
might actually be a concerted sequence. The idea 
startled him by the possibilities thus presented. 
It required no effort on his part to arrange the 
three phrases in what seemed their natural order. 

“From the icon, one hundred and thirty-two 
yards, into the pool,” he said aloud slowly and 
distinctly, with entire conviction. 

Carney considered the statement with care, and 
decided that it exhibited inherent evidence of both 
correctness and completeness. Here was a simple 
and straightforward announcement. The words 
conveyed precise information. The direction was 
plain enough. More knowledge, of course, was 



196 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


needed, much more. Nevertheless, a beginning 
had been made. It were absurd to suppose that 
the sentence thus constructed was merely a hap¬ 
hazard jumble of words, a fortuitous combination 
exploited by his own overheated imagination. On 
the contrary, the circumstances well warranted his 
belief in the importance of the result he had 
achieved, authorized his confidence that at last 
he had attained to something vitally effective 
toward a solution of the mystery. The Doctor 
went over all his fragments of information pains¬ 
takingly, and his detailed scrutiny filled him with 
elation, for reasoning from them approved the 
conclusion at which he had already arrived. It 
was not credible that the utterance of the two par¬ 
rots should be meaningless. The birds had been 
the constant companions of Andrieff, and that at 
a time when his whole endeavor was fixed on the 
task of preserving for Vera Daniloff the fortune 
in gems entrusted to him. It was during this time 
that he had taught the parrots to croak each its 
phrase — taught them so well that they still 
shrieked the set words tirelessly. 

Once again, the mystery of the third parrot 
loomed before the thought of Doctor Carney. He 
broke off the train of his musings to consider this 
mystery from a new aspect. Hitherto, he had 
always deemed the speech of the two unmutilated 
birds something incomplete because it lacked that 



The Parrot's Message 


197 


third part which had depended on the parrot 
now forever silenced. He had wondered hope¬ 
lessly as to the words once spoken by the bird 
now mute. It had seemed impossible ever to 
learn, impossible even to guess what those words 
might have been. Now, however, he dared be¬ 
lieve that they had been revealed to him, that he 
had drawn from another source the knowledge 
denied by the silence of the parrot. The lost 
phrase was recovered out of the Book of the 
Gospels of Andrieff. 

Ideas thronged in the mind of the psychologist 
under the stimulation of his discovery. He was 
again confronted with the question as to who had 
mutilated the third parrot. But now, with his 
increase of knowledge, he was able to formulate 
a theory which fitted all the facts, so nicely, in¬ 
deed, that he deemed himself justified in accepting 
it as the true explanation. This theory was to the 
effect that the murderer of the old sailor, when 
he failed to find the treasure for which he had 
committed the crime, had understood the cries of 
the birds, and had realized the purport of the 
joined utterances, which contained a definite direc¬ 
tion to the hiding place of the jewels. The mur¬ 
derer had cut out the tongue of the third parrot 
in order that this information should never be 
conveyed to another person. It might be that he 
had intended likewise to silence the other two 



198 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


parrots, but had feared to delay longer on the 
scene. Or it might be that he had judged it 
enough to obliterate merely the third part of the 
words. 

It must have been, then, that Andrielf had not 
died instantly after receiving the fatal blow. 
Doctor Carney sat up suddenly, and pulled fiercely 
at his cold pipe. He was shivering a little at the 
picture his fancy painted. He saw the old man 
supine on the floor, dying swiftly as the blood 
ebbed from the knife-wound, yet through glazing 
eyes watching every movement of his slayer, and 
understanding. Perhaps the assassin talked to his 
victim, sure that death within a matter of seconds 
would hold the listener forever silent. Anyhow, 
Andrieff had understood. When, at last, the 
enemy took himself off, the dying man managed 
somehow to get the beloved book from his pocket. 
It had fallen open of its own accord at that favor¬ 
ite passage, as he must have known it would. 
Then he had dabbled a finger in the blood welling 
from the wound in his breast and with the final 
effort of his strength had drawn that mark on the 
page below the words, V 9 kupaVnoo —into the 
pool. 

Again, Carney broke off the train of his 
musings. He must know if, in very truth, that 
smear in the fourth verse of the fifth chapter of 
the Gospel according to John in Andrieff’s Book 



The Parrot's Message 


199 


of the Gospels was made in blood. He looked at 
his watch: It was only half-past nine. He went 
to the telephone, and called a number. A moment 
later, he was talking to a noted chemist of the uni¬ 
versity, with whom he was on friendly terms. 

“ Isn’t it a simple matter to make a test of 
blood stains?” the Doctor asked. Then, after 
listening a moment: “ If it’s not too late, sup¬ 

posing I come right up.” The reply evidently 
pleased him, for he was smiling as he said good¬ 
bye and hung up the receiver. He hastened now 
to the valise which he had packed, opened it, and 
took out the automatic. When, after making sure 
that the safety catch was properly adjusted, he 
had placed this in the right outer coat pocket, he 
slipped Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels into the 
other pocket, took hat and stick and gloves, and 
sallied forth. He was back again by eleven 
o’clock. There was no longer any possibility of 
doubt: the smear on the page of the sacred volume 
had been made in blood — human blood. 



CHAPTER XIX 


GOSHKOFF SHOWS HIS HAND 
HE same evening that witnessed Doctor 



A Carney’s discovery of a possible clue to the 
mystery in the blood-marked text of Andrieff’s 
Book of the Gospels, witnessed also something of 
particular importance in the life of Vera Daniloff, 
an event that brought her face to face with feel¬ 
ings hitherto hidden, hardly suspected, and crystal¬ 
lized her convictions in a manner to dominate her 
future conduct. The occasion was a visit from 
Boris Goshkoff, who called at an early hour, as 
had come to be his custom when the girl was not 
otherwise engaged. 

Vera welcomed the guest with her usual 
sprightly pleasure in the presence of this young 
man, in whose company she was at ease, free from 
the trammels of a strange language, at liberty to 
express her every thought without heed to the 
necessities of phrasing in an unfamiliar tongue. 
Moreover, the actor exerted over her the charm 
of a personality that appeared both intelligent and 
genial, which was, in fact, unusually attractive. He 
not only solaced her loneliness in an alien land by 
the atmosphere of home which he brought with 


200 


Goshkoff Shows His Hand 


201 


him, but he entertained her ingeniously and well 
by the light and swift play of his thoughts, by his 
sympathetic response to her changing moods, even 
by the music of his voice, the mobile expressive¬ 
ness of face and gesture. And, too, it cannot be 
doubted that the girl took a lively, though un¬ 
acknowledged pleasure, from the fact that this 
handsome and attractive fellow countryman 
adored her. She was aware of his feeling toward 
her, notwithstanding that she refused admission 
of the truth to her consciousness. It was here the 
prejudice of class distinctions held sway in Vera. 
She was dominated by the instinct of the patrician 
toward one of ignoble birth. There was a bar¬ 
rier between her and Boris Goshkoff, a barrier that 
could not be surmounted. She might look over it 
for her amusement, might permit him to look over 
it as well in reward for the services he rendered, 
but the barrier remained, nevertheless, impreg¬ 
nable and enduring. She, the lady, condescended 
to a certain friendliness with this inferior, who, 
naturally enough, worshiped her from afar. 
Even as she refused him the dignity of recognizing 
formally in her thoughts the actuality of his love, 
so it never occurred to her that this love could 
be aught beyond a hopeless passion in which he 
worshiped thus from afar. She could not con¬ 
ceive a presumptuousness on his part so enormous, 
so ridiculous, as to encourage him to any hope. 



202 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


In short, she liked Boris, who distracted her and 
amused her, but she disdained him as one beneath 
her. If she relaxed from her native strictness to 
some degree of intimacy in this new, democratic 
country where, as she understood, prince and 
peasant hobnobbed in such extraordinary fashion 
— rather, where there was neither prince nor peas¬ 
ant, but only a society of equals, if she responded 
to her environment to the extent of receiving Boris 
as a welcome guest, she did not in the least alter 
her inherited belief in the difference of station 
that separated them wholly and always. 

Boris Goshkoff, on the other hand, had no 
thought of any barrier between him and the object 
of his love. The distinctions of social caste were 
to him no more than a swiftly disappearing rem¬ 
nant of old-world tradition. In his own country, 
the prestige of birth no longer counted. The 
cataclysm of the revolution had destroyed the 
sanctity of all social institutions. Even in Russia, 
then, there was no longer aught to forbid his 
wooing of this girl of gentle birth, though his own 
origin was of the humblest. He had attained edu¬ 
cation, he was skilled in the arts of his profes¬ 
sion: he was, therefore, her equal, free to press 
his suit for her favor, to win her, to wed. Here 
in America, there was every encouragement to 
such mating. So, he had merely bided his time 
discreetly, lest he startle and antagonize the girl 



Goshkoff Shows His Hand 


203 


by premature avowal. He had entire confidence 
in ultimate victory. He knew that he was usually 
attractive to women, and, in this case, he could not 
doubt the girl’s liking for him so frankly dis¬ 
played, and he dared believe that the liking did 
but mask a more tender feeling. Now, he was 
determined to put his fortune to the test. He had 
looked with much disquietude on the intimacy that 
developed between Vera and the young American, 
Farnham. He was convinced, however, that there 
was no longer any danger in this direction. His 
information was sufficient concerning the break be¬ 
tween the girl and the architect, and the knowledge 
influenced him toward making his own declaration 
at once. He regarded it as probable that Vera’s 
reaction to her falling out with Farnham would 
be highly favorable to his own projects. 

The conversation between the two at the outset 
was of a trivial sort, light badinage, quick and 
spirited wit and repartee, with much accompani¬ 
ment of laughter. Goshkoff, under the stimulus 
of his resolve, was, at his best, constantly interest¬ 
ing, often brilliant. The girl responded easily to 
his mood, and for a time forgot all the misery of 
her situation, and expanded in the pleasure of the 
moment with girlish simplicity, an ingenuous 
fervor that her guest mistook for the deeper ardor 
of her heart. The mistake in judgment inflamed 
him — so much that he revealed himself incau- 



204 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


tiously, forgetting the subtle approaches he had 
planned, acting and speaking as nature impelled. 

The two were seated side by side on the couch. 
Suddenly, without'any warning, Goshkoff broke 
off the refrain of a lilting melody, which he had 
been humming while Vera, eyes sparkling, cheeks 
flushed rosily, beat the measure with her hands. 
He thrust out his own hands, and caught hers in 
a hot clasp, would have drawn her toward him. 
But, at the contact, she shrank away, struggled to 
free herself. Her strength was insufficient, for he 
did not loosen his clutch on her fingers. 

“Vera, I love you!” he said, his voice low but 
tremulous with the emotion that he no longer 
sought to conceal. “I love you — I love you!” 
He bent toward her, his dark eyes flaming. 

The girl visibly shuddered at his words. Her 
face had whitened. She stared back at him with 
eyes that were brilliant, but cold as ice. Her look 
met his fully, dominated, so that, after a few mo¬ 
ments, his eyes fell, and unconsciously he relaxed 
his grip on her hands. Instantly, the girl pulled 
free, and sprang to her feet. Goshkoff, too, stood 
up, and the two remained facing each other. 

“Vera—” he began in the softest note of his 
voice, pleadingly, only to be interrupted by the 
girl’s swift command. 

“Never again! I am not Vera to you.” The 
contempt in her voice was like the lash of a whip, 



Goshkoff Shows His Hand 


205 


and the man winced under it. “ You have pre¬ 
sumed on my kindness. You may go, and you 
shall not return.” The usual alluring curves of 
her lips were banished under the straightened com¬ 
pression of the mouth. The beautiful face had 
hardened into disdain, the eyes still cold. She 
stood proudly erect, a figure of outraged dignity, 
the whole attitude one of mingled repulsion and 
scorn. 

Goshkoff was appalled by the effect of his im¬ 
petuous action. He regarded with dismay this 
imperious and hostile creature thus suddenly 
sprung into being where before had been only an 
amiable and happy maiden. Yet, unprepared as 
he had been for the transition, and disconcerted by 
it, he was not ready to admit defeat. On the 
contrary, after the first moments of intense 
chagrin, he felt more than ever resolved not only 
to make his plea, but also to win his suit in spite 
of every obstacle. A desire welled in him to 
master this woman who deemed his love an insult, 
to make her his own despite any resistance that 
she might offer. A certain brutal lust for domi¬ 
nance mounted in his mood, so that when, at last, 
he spoke again, his words came boldly, charged 
with conscious power. 

“You are back in the times of a history that is 
dead and done,” he began quietly, but with the 
ring of sincerity in his voice. “ Even in our own 



206 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Russia, there is no longer anything to stand be¬ 
tween such as you and me. Artificial distinctions 
in the social order are of the past. Here in Amer¬ 
ica, who knows of the noble line from which Vera 
Daniloff sprang? Here and today, my blood is 
the equal of any. Sources are forgotten, they no 
longer count. It is possible that I do not presume 
in offering you my love, that, instead, I confer a 
favor. Who are you to show haughtiness toward 
me? You are now nothing, a nobody—only a 
girl poor and friendless, with nothing of value 
except your personal attractiveness. Because that 
is so great, I love you. Very well, then, my love 
honors you, for I am greater than you. I have 
my art. Already, I have established the begin¬ 
nings of success. I shall be great. My offer to 
share that greatness with you is not something to 
be spurned; it merits your gratitude.” He paused 
for a little, and when he spoke again, his tone was 
gentler, athrill with tenderness. 

“And I can give you something greater than 
success, I can give you happiness. I love you, 
and my love is not a weak thing. I shall surround 
you with all the pleasures of love, I shall make 
your life the fullness of joy.” Now, a triumphant 
note sounded in his words. “ I do not suffer from 
lack of means. I do not depend solely on the 
money I may gain by my art. I have an income 
from other sources.” 



Goshkoff Shows His Hand 


207 


As he paused, the girl spoke in insolent dis¬ 
missal: 

“ You have had your say. Now, go!” 

Goshkoff shook his head rebelliously, and 
folded his arms. He was not yet prepared to 
admit defeat. 

“You may think that I am merely boasting 
when I speak of possessing means. As a matter 
of fact, however, I am rich.” 

“With a moujik’s savings of a lifetime in 
kopecks,” Vera commented in a tone of derision. 

The flush that passion had brought into Gosh- 
koff’s cheeks deepened into the red of anger. He 
forgot caution, and spoke with a candor that a 
calmer mood would have restrained. 

“The slur amuses you perhaps, but it is unjust. 
When I say that I am rich, I mean it in the sense 
that you yourself understand the word. I have 
gold—much gold; and more to come as I require 
it. Those back of me tap the gold supply of the 
world. The riches of Russia, hoarded through 
ages, are ours — all ours. The treasure of other 
nations will follow. It is only a question of time 
when we shall dominate the world.” 

The pallor of Vera’s face increased as she 
listened to the braggart words. Here was, if she 
could believe her ears, a most ghastly revelation. 
It was incredible that this young man, with whom 
she had passed so many pleasant hours, whom she 




208 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


had so often welcomed with friendliness, could be 
one of those enemies who had shed the best blood 
of Russia, who had bereft her of family and home 
and had driven her into exile, who had even pur¬ 
sued her, killed her loyal servant, stolen the last 
remnant of her fortune 1 It was indeed incredible 
that this man who had partaken of her hospitality 
could be such a foe — more incredible still that 
he could avow his ignominy thus shamelessly. 
Yet, he had spoken clearly, without any trace of 
shame, with a seeming of pride in his own deg¬ 
radation. 

“You are one of them, then,” the girl said at 
last, and her voice was quavering, “ one of those 
creatures of blood. You have sold yourself for 
their gold. You are paid to do their bidding, to 
corrupt, to commit any crime set for you.” 

Goshkoff stood unperturbed by the fierceness of 
the girl’s denunciation. It might be that he re¬ 
gretted his indiscretion, but, if so, he showed no 
sign of repentance. Instead, he replied with com¬ 
plete assurance: 

“ It is wise to accept things as they are. It is 
useless to resist the power that controls Russia. 
I am intelligent enough to realize the inevitable 
and to profit from it. The past is past, there is 
blood on our gold, but do you think that the 
gold was unstained before we took it? You see, 
Vera, this is a practical world. Why should we 



Goshkoff Shows His Hand 


209 


mourn over the evils that are done with? It is 
better that we should profit from the plenty that 
is at hand. You love Russia. As my wife, you 
will be able to return. I believe that I may be 
able to acquire your estates. I offer you your coun¬ 
try and your home. Besides, I know that, once 
you put down your foolish pride, you will love 
me. 

“Love you!” Vera cried. “I loathe you! I 
would not share Heaven itself with you! ” 

Goshkoff felt the hate that vibrated in her 
voice, and a jealous wrath flared. 

“You fancy, perhaps, that your heart is en¬ 
gaged by this young American nobody, Farn- 
ham.” He laughed shortly, with a sinister mirth 
that startled the girl. “A nobody at the moment, 
yes, but he will be notorious soon. The news¬ 
papers will carry his name in headlines; they will 
publish his picture with the caption, ‘The Mur¬ 
derer of Andrieff.’ ” 

A choking cry of despair came from Vera. 

“ Oh, how dare you, how dare you! What do 
you know? ” 

“ I know much. Those with whom I am joined 
are well informed everywhere. This friend of 
yours will be arrested for the killing of your serv¬ 
ant and the stealing of your jewels. He will be 
convicted, and he will pay the death penalty.” 
The actor snapped his fingers and laughed again, 



210 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


more evilly than before. u So much for him! 
When he is in the death house at Sing Sing, it 
is likely that you will take stock of your heart 
again, and be inclined to put me there in his stead. 
I’ll be patient, and give you time to learn the 
inevitable.” 

“ Go ! ” the girl whispered. 

Goshkoff smiled malignantly, and for a little 
contemplated the miserable figure of despair that 
was his work. He had no feeling of compunction. 
On the contrary, he was elated that he had thus 
humiliated and outraged her every sensibility. 
She, in her patrician pride, had scorned him. He 
had had his revenge. He triumphed in the 
thought that he had exhibited to her so brutally 
his power of mastery. Farnham would soon be 
out of the way. For the present, he had done 
enough toward the breaking of her spirit. Pres¬ 
ently, he would come again to assert his authority 
over her. Now, he could go, content in the 
knowledge that he had stripped her bare of all 
illusions, had left her helpless to face utter desola¬ 
tion, a future of despair in which he must show 
at last as her only hope. 

“ I’ll leave you to think things over,” he said 
briskly, with a change of manner to the casual. 
“When I come again, I shall expect to find you 
in a more reasonable mood.” 

With that, Goshkoff turned and went out. 




Goshkoff Shows His Hand 


211 


When she had heard the outer door close behind 
him, Vera stirred and shuddered. She moved 
feebly to the couch, and sank down upon it, and 
lay there in a horror so intense that at last the 
violence of it achieved for her the merciful respite 
of unconsciousness. 



CHAPTER XX 

THE MAN IN THE LAUNCH 

O N THE morning following his discovery of 
what he believed to be a clue in Andrieff’s 
Book of the Gospels, Doctor Carney rose with a 
sense of exaltation that was new to him. He ex¬ 
perienced a boyish feeling of delight in antici¬ 
pated adventure. It was his intention to set out 
immediately for Connecticut, for the shore of the 
Sound where the old Russian sailor had hidden 
himself for a time. The prospect of this excursion 
had an extraordinary effect on the spirits of the 
learned man. He was more than ever enthused 
over the idea of actual participation in vital events. 
Some part of his nature that had lain dormant 
during all the years of his life until the last few 
weeks, was now fully aroused, and he was aquiver 
with eagerness to be up and doing in the strange 
new work so curiously thrust upon him by Fate. 
He reveled in a sense of importance that was 
very strange and most agreeable to his pride. He 
realized in himself a dignity hitherto unknown be¬ 
cause of his present share in extraordinary events. 
He reflected complacently on the fact that he it 
was who had discovered the murder of Andrieff. 
212 


The Man in the Launch 


213 


Moreover, he believed that he had seen the mur¬ 
derer face to face. In addition to this distinction, 
he, and he only, had contrived to hit on a clue that 
might possibly lead to the finding of the jewels. 
The Doctor repeated to himself as if it were a 
magic formula of power, the phrases gathered 
from the two parrots and the Book of the Gos¬ 
pels: From the icon, one hundred and thirty-two 
yards, into the pool. For the life of him, his rea¬ 
son could suggest no possible means toward the 
application of this obscure direction to the pur¬ 
poses of search, but the mood of the psychologist 
was superior to reason. He had a sublime confi¬ 
dence in himself, in his ability to achieve, in the 
correctness of his impulse toward action, in his 
power to succeed as the chosen agent of Provi¬ 
dence for solving this mystery. He hoped not only 
to retrieve the treasure belonging to Vera Dan- 
iloff, but also to establish the innocence of his 
friend Farnham so terribly and, as he believed, 
unjustly accused by circumstances. It mattered lit¬ 
tle to him that, thus far, he wholly lacked any 
knowledge of a sort that could be brought to bear 
in favor of Farnham’s innocence. The logic of 
the situation did not disconcert him in the least. 
He had completely surrendered to his mood, 
which was one of assured anticipation of success. 
Where the way seemed dark, there the light 
would shine in due course. Meantime, he had 



214 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


only to follow whither inspiration guided him — 
at the outset, to a little shack somewhere on the 
shore of Long Island Sound. 

Carney still had in mind the possibility of a 
further attack on him by those unknown enemies 
who had already assaulted him, but he did not 
believe that they would venture on violence in the 
broad light of day. So, he left the automatic 
along with the revolver in his bag when, presently, 
he made his way to the Grand Central Station to 
take train for Clinton, Connecticut. He took the 
precaution, nevertheless, of casting a wary eye 
about him from time to time both on his way to 
the station and after his arrival there, to make 
sure that no suspicious person was on his trail, and 
he was relieved to observe nothing suggestive of 
a watchful enemy. He did not note a man of 
inconspicuous appearance immediately behind him 
at the ticket window, who carried a large valise, 
and who leaned forward as if listening while Car¬ 
ney purchased a ticket, and who, then, as the 
other passed on, himself bought a ticket to the 
same point. 

Carney reached Clinton in mid-afternoon of a 
delightful day in early summer. His mood of 
exaltation had continued, undiminished by the 
tedium of the railway journey. From the station, 
he went directly to the one hotel which the village 
boasted. He walked the short distance, carrying 



The Mart in the Launch 


215 


his bag, and the mild exercise seemed to invigorate 
him as he breathed in the salty air blown from the 
sea. His satisfaction waxed as he reached the 
hotel itself, a modest structure of stone that dated 
back to Colonial times. It was quaint without and 
quaint within, its atmosphere wholly unlike that 
of the modern hostelry. Antique furnishings 
heightened the effect of transition from modernity 
into the past, and the change in his surroundings 
soothed the Doctor, while it in no wise lessened 
his mood of enthusiasm. An amiable young man, 
who was the proprietor, ushered him up the single 
flight of stairs, and installed him in a corner room 
with windows overlooking the main street of the 
village. 

Doctor Carney, left alone here, took no more 
time than was necessary to transfer the automatic 
from the valise to his coat pocket, before begin¬ 
ning his researches. He was surprised and a little 
disappointed that nowhere could he catch a 
glimpse of the sea. Therefore, having armed 
himself, he at once descended to the hotel office, 
and there questioned the young man. 

“Just a little way down Commerce Street,” was 
the instruction, with a gesture indicating an elm- 
shaded thoroughfare running south at right angles 
to the main street, just to the west of the hotel, 
“ and you’ll come to the shore. The harbor lies 
there — a busy place in the old days, but quiet 



216 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


enough now. you’ll see the golf links and the 
club house to your left. The course is a fine one, 
if you care to play.” 

The psychologist shook his head at the sugges¬ 
tion, for he had given no time to outdoor sports 
since his university days, but it occurred to him in 
his unaccustomed liveliness of spirits that he really 
ought to take up the game. It were folly to mope 
in a study with the world outside so fair, when 
the air of the sea so set the blood atingle. 

u I’ll have a walk there, anyhow,” he an¬ 
nounced, and forthwith set out along the way 
indicated in the pleasant shade of the great elms. 
The street was of the sort familiar in New Eng¬ 
land villages, wide and with a strip of turf lying 
between roadway and sidewalk. The houses on 
either side were of simple and substantial archi¬ 
tecture, some of them genuinely old, others more 
recent, but fashioned in the older style, so that 
there was a harmonious aspect throughout the 
thoroughfare. The dignity was enhanced by 
a spacious church building, and everywhere by 
grounds carefully kept, with abundant floral orna¬ 
mentation. Presently, the Doctor came to a 
stretch of golf links, a portion of which reached 
across the highway to the west, but for the main 
part lay on the east side, extending far to the 
south. Here, the sidewalk on that side ended, and 
Carney crossed to the pavement that ran before 



The Man in the Launch 


217 


the houses facing the links. A little further on, 
this walk also ceased, and he followed a footpath 
that bordered the roadway. The ground dipped, 
a little now, and he saw the placid waters of the 
harbor, lying only a short way in front. To the 
right, a large building stood within a plantation 
of melancholy evergreens, evidently a hotel that 
opened only for the summer season if at all, for 
there was no sign of life anywhere about it. Its 
lugubrious aspect exerted a depressing effect on 
the psychologist as he stared curiously. He was 
chilled by the gloomy appearance of this structure, 
weather-worn and forlorn, girt about by dense 
shadows, in striking contrast to the brilliant sun¬ 
light of the day which elsewhere warmed highway 
and fields and waters and clothed them with 
beauty. By an effort, he shook off the evil in¬ 
fluence and went forward quickly across the level 
stretch that led to the water’s edge. As he gazed 
eagerly about him, the Doctor saw that the harbor 
itself was landlocked, and of small area. It was 
a tranquil place. There was not even the rhythm 
of the surf to destroy the calm, only the gentle 
lapping of wavelets that marked the movement of 
the tide. On the shore, there was a barnlike 
building that served the needs of fishermen, and 
alongside the rickety dock lay a hardly less rickety 
boat, whence issued a fishy smell that caused the 
Doctor’s nose to wrinkle in disgust. 



218 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


Disappointment seized on Carney as he looked 
about him. The mood of confidence that had 
hitherto supported him throughout the day was 
rudely shaken. He had expected, somehow, to 
come at once on the object of his search. But 
now he realized that he had failed in his first 
attempt to locate the shack occupied by Andrieff’s 
brother. There was nowhere in the neighborhood 
any building to answer the description. It was 
evident that the single structure at hand was not 
used for dwelling purposes, and there was no 
other near along the shore. Off to the right, as 
he stood looking westward, there was nothing 
save the flat expanse of salt meadows bordering 
on the shore, until in the distance on slightly 
higher ground some cottages showed in an irregu¬ 
lar line. Further back from the shore, to the 
north were houses straggling on the outskirts of 
the village. Carney looked to his left, following 
the eastern line of the Sound, and again could see 
only the meadows, and farther back outlying 
houses of the town. He realized that he must 
extend his search for the shack. He was doubtful 
about the prudence of trusting himself to the 
meadows, where the ground might prove treacher¬ 
ous, and so betook himself back along the road¬ 
way a short distance, to where a branch bore east¬ 
ward at a right angle, skirting the golf course. A 
house stood on each corner, and as he advanced, 



The Man in the Launch 219 


he passed what was evidently the Country Club. 
Then the roadway abruptly ended, and he found 
himself at a loss. There were houses beyond, 
however, and he decided that they must be reached 
by some other route closer to the shore. At the 
risk of trespass, he crossed a bit of lawn lying 
between the highway and the shore, and so came 
to a bank that extended at a height of a few feet 
above the meadow. Looking down, he saw that 
there was indeed a rough track here running east 
and west. As he scrambled down to it, his eyes 
caught a glimpse of the figure of a man standing 
motionless on the far side of the meadow, at the 
water’s edge. Carney halted in amazement to 
stare at this object so unexpectedly presented to 
sight, since only a few seconds before his glances 
had swept all the water front, and no living being 
had been anywhere within his view. Now, as he 
intently regarded the motionless man less than a 
hundred yards distant from him across the 
meadow, the form suddenly stooped, and in the 
same second vanished from sight behind the trunk 
of an uprooted tree, which lay close to the shore. 
The Doctor stood waiting for the man to 
straighten up again, to reappear. But the mo¬ 
ments passed, and the shore remained to all 
appearance utterly deserted, there was no sign of 
life anywhere. A minute went by, and another, 
and still there was no change. The Doctor 



220 Th e Mystery of the Third Parrot 


watched alertly, in grinning exasperation but noth¬ 
ing rewarded his vigil. 

It occurred to Carney that there had been some¬ 
thing suspiciously mysterious in the affair. There 
had been stealth in the manner of the man’s ap¬ 
pearance, in the manner of his disappearance. It 
needed only a touch of suspicion to fire a train 
of resentment in Carney. The possibility flashed 
in his mind that the occurrence might be of sig¬ 
nificance to himself. Secret enemies had already 
been active against him in the matter of the as¬ 
sault. They had failed then. What more natural 
than to suppose that they planned another attempt? 
It might be that they had trailed him on his jour¬ 
ney to Clinton. The abrupt looming of that form 
on the edge of the meadow and its equally abrupt 
vanishing were sufficient to suggest a sinister pur¬ 
pose. A conviction grew in the Doctor that the 
man was a spy upon him. With the conviction 
came anger. A fierce desire to confront the fellow 
moved him to action. He felt courage enough to 
face any enemy, and this courage was reinforced 
by the cool contact of the automatic as he slipped 
his right hand into his pocket and snuggled the 
weapon within his palm. At once, then, he left 
the track and hurried across the meadow, quite 
unmindful now of any peril from bog or quick¬ 
sand. So, he came to the tree trunk, and rounded 
it, and looked down. To his amazement, no one 



The Man in the Launch 


221 


was there, nor did the spot offer any possible 
hiding place. He stood alone on the edge of the 
salt meadow, at the water’s brink. As the tide 
ran, he was some four feet above the level. There 
was no beach, no nook or cranny to offer even the 
most meager concealment. It seemed, in fact, 
that a miracle had been wrought by the disappear¬ 
ance of the man whom he had so recently seen 
standing in this very spot. He cast eyes further 
abroad, but he could discern nothing to relieve his 
perplexity. A few furlongs to the eastward near 
the shore, a tiny launch moved at a leisurely pace. 
He noted that the sound of the motor did not 
come to him, and wondered a little at this, since 
the distance of the craft from him was so short. 
Then, he realized that the breeze from the west 
had freshened, and that thus the noise of the 
engine was carried away from him. His thoughts 
in this direction had been purely mechanical, but 
of a sudden he perceived that here, doubtless, was 
an explanation of the thing that had baffled him. 
The man who had vanished had, in all likelihood, 
come in the launch to this point of the shore 
where the old tree trunk was lying. Here, he 
had halted, and had climbed up on the bank for 
whatever purpose of his own, then had descended 
again into the boat, and gone on his way, running 
close to the bank, so that the height of it com¬ 
pletely hid him from the eyes of the watcher who 



222 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


stood in the track on the opposite side of the 
meadow, and the quickening of the wind had kept 
all sound of the progress from the ears of that 
same watcher. Carney sighed with relief that the 
miracle was thus simply resolved into plain fact so 
reasonably explicable. But the simplicity of the 
event by no means altered his belief that it was 
fraught with import to himself. His conviction 
was strengthened and confirmed, that the unknown 
man was in truth a spy upon his own actions, some 
emissary of him who had slain Andrieff in the 
effort to secure the jewels of Vera Daniloff. He 
wondered mightily as to the motive back of this 
espionage. Was it fear of him, of what he might 
discover, that drove some one to seek his destruc¬ 
tion? Or was it a hope that he might discover 
what someone else had failed to learn — the secret 
place where Andrieff had hidden the treasure? 
Then, at last, another thought blazed in the brain 
of Doctor Carney: Was it possible that this un¬ 
known individual who dogged his steps could be 
the murderer himself. A new thrill, beyond any 
hitherto experienced by him, was in Carney’s 
blood as this wild fancy filled his mind. The pos¬ 
sibility pointed a way to hope, not only of find¬ 
ing the Daniloff heirlooms and restoring them to 
Vera, but also of encountering the assassin face 
to face, of identifying him as the man seen in the 
elevated train, of capturing him and of render- 



The Man in the Launch 


223 


ing him to the law’s punishment for his crime. 

The Doctor returned to the track that ran along 
the inland edge of the meadow and followed it 
eastward in renewed questing for the shack of 
Andrieff’s brother. But he found his way barred 
shortly by an inlet, as he deemed it, and after 
some investigation he learned that this reached 
back into the village, and that there was no way 
to cross it anywhere near the shore. Perforce, he 
returned to the village by the way he had come. 
The day was deepening toward dusk as he reached 
the hotel, and he regretfully gave up any hope of 
further exploration before the morrow. A brief 
inquiry addressed to the proprietor informed him 
that what he had thought to be an inlet was in 
fact the mouth of a river, which flowed through 
the village into the Sound. He learned also that 
to the eastward of this stream another street, 
Waterfront, led to the shore. He determined to 
continue his search in this direction next day. The 
salt air and the unaccustomed exercise had given 
him a hearty appetite, and he ate of the excellent 
supper to repletion. Immediately thereafter, to 
his surprise, and somewhat to his indignation, he 
was assailed by an overpowering sleepiness, so 
that he was compelled to go to bed, where he fell 
asleep instantly, and slept dreamlessly the night 
through. 



CHAPTER XXI 


THE DOCTOR'S DISCOVERIES 


ARNEY’S enthusiasm over his undertaking 



remained undiminished when he rose next 


morning. It was, indeed, if anything more ram¬ 
pant by reason of his increased sense of well-being 
physically. He was, in truth, full of a vigor 
quite unaccustomed, which was exhilarating in its 
effects. He experienced a self-confidence that was 
as strange as it was delightful. Hitherto, his self- 
assurance had been based chiefly, if not wholly, on 
the possession of mental ability. He still retained 
his pride of intellect, but in addition to it he en¬ 
joyed a serene belief in his physical worth, in an 
energy sufficient to meet any demand upon it. 
Moreover, lurking in the background of his con¬ 
sciousness was a complacent conviction that occult 
forces welling within him would guide him aright 
in any emergency, that a psychic perception would 
point the way in any crisis. Nevertheless, he de¬ 
termined on a reasonable prudence, rather than 
on rashness in his procedure. He had intended to 
carry on his investigation without assistance until 
such time as he should reach some definite discov¬ 
ery, and he had, therefore, meant to leave Farn- 


224 


The Doctor’s Discoveries 


225 


ham ignorant for the time being of his presence in 
the neighborhood. Now, however, he changed his 
intention in this particular. He had been im¬ 
pressed by the possibility that a spy was trailing 
him. In spite of his courage, he realized the fact 
that he might fall victim to an attack from the 
unknown enemy. To be sure, he had his weapon 
and the ability and the will to use it if necessary. 
But, too, his adversary would be armed, doubtless, 
and a shot from ambush on the lonely shore might 
lay him low without opportunity for defense. It 
seemed wiser, then, to seek out Farnham in order 
to have companionship in his further exploration. 

So, immediately after breakfasting, the psychol¬ 
ogist set forth eastward along the main street of 
the village. He crossed the bridge where the 
little river cut the town, and he continued to the 
street’s end, where the highway branched, one 
road swinging to the right toward the shore of 
the Sound, and the other bending to the left, run¬ 
ning inland. It was this second highway that the 
Doctor now followed, according to the direction 
given to him by the architect. He found himself 
in genuine country, with only here and there an 
isolated farmhouse. A half-hour of brisk walking 
brought him within view of the stream that Farnr 
ham had described. The bungalow was not in 
sight, but Carney without hesitation followed 
southward along the river bank, and soon 



226 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


glimpsed the little structure that was his destina¬ 
tion. As he went forward, the Doctor saw Farn- 
ham himself come out of the house and stand 
looking out over the river and the landscape 
beyond. He called out, and at the hail the young 
man whirled and gaped with amazement as he 
recognized the little man hurrying toward him. 
That he was disturbed by the coming of this unex¬ 
pected visitor was indicated clearly by his words 
and the excitement with which they were spoken: 

“You, Doctor! What is it? Why are you 
here — to warn me ? ” 

Carney shook his head, and grinned reassur¬ 
ingly while the two shook hands. 

“ Everything is all right,” he declared. “And, 
anyhow, you’re only under suspicion. I saw Max¬ 
well the morning after you left, and he told me 
all about it.” He looked pityingly at the young 
man as he spoke, for the white, lined face told 
of strain. 

Farnham answered the commiseration in the 
other’s gaze, and his tone was shamed, apologetic. 

“This being a fugitive gets on my nerves,” he 
confessed bitterly. “I’m getting disgustingly 
timid — a bit jumpy—‘every bush an officer’ you 
know, and that sort of thing. The worst of it is, 
I can see no hope for the future.” 

“Maybe you will when I’ve explained things,” 
the Doctor replied cheerfully. But the young 



The Doctor’s Discoveries 


227 


man’s face did not lighten. 

“I can see no way out,” was his somber reply. 
“ But come inside, and we’ll talk.” He gestured 
toward the door which stood open. 

The two entered the living-room of the bunga¬ 
low, which was sparsely furnished with a few 
chairs, a table and a couch. When they were 
seated, and the Doctor was puffing at his pipe, 
Farnham revealed again his mood of fear. 

“Are you sure you weren’t followed from the 
city?” 

“ Not by anyone from Police Headquarters, 
which, I take it, is what you mean but, all the 
same, I may have been followed—not on your 
account, but on my own. Just listen, and I’ll tell 
you the whole story.” The psychologist smiled 
shamefacedly. “I might as well admit in the 
beginning that my story contains precious little 
fact and a lot of guesswork. You’ll have to be 
patient with me, and just try to get my point of 
view. You see, I want your help, and I want it 
badly. In return, I have a feeling, a conviction 
that the result will be to your advantage.” 

“ I’m ready to listen, of course,” the young man 
responded courteously, though not at all hope¬ 
fully. It was evident that it would require some¬ 
thing definite in the way of information to lessen 
the depression under which he suffered. Doctor 
Carney realized this, but the fact in no wise 



228 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


daunted him. He believed that he would be able 
to impart to his companion some portion at least 
of his own optimism. Thus, still eager and self- 
confident, he began his narrative. 

Farnham listened attentively to the detailed ac¬ 
count. He was interested, if not hopeful, through¬ 
out, for this matter was of vital concern to his 
own safety. But, when at last the psychologist 
reached a conclusion, the face of the architect ex¬ 
pressed only a profound disappointment. It 
seemed to him that the whole structure reared 
by the Doctor was no more than a figment of 
dreams, of fantastic theories without the reality 
of facts, merely something chimerical, a fabric of 
absurdities. There was nothing in these vague 
imaginings to point a way to the discovery of a 
murderer in whose stead he stood accused. Noth¬ 
ing in Carney’s story held a promise of his own 
escape from a situation that menaced his liberty, 
even his life. He summed up his feeling in a terse 
statement that was like an icy douche on the Doc¬ 
tor’s heated fancies. 

“You have found a blood stain in Andrieff’s 
Book of the Gospels . The two words above it 
mean, * into the pool.’ That seems to be all that 
you have actually accomplished. It is wild guess¬ 
work to suppose that those two words had any¬ 
thing to do with the jewels. They cannot possibly 
help in the identification of the murderer, which 



The Doctor's Discoveries 


229 


to me is the one thing that counts. Probably the 
smear of blood was just accident. On the face 
of it, your interpretation is preposterous.” 

“But I feel—” the Doctor began to protest, 
deeply mortified by the young man’s harsh criti¬ 
cism. 

Farnham interrupted impatiently. 

“ That’s the trouble, you feel, and you let your 
feelings carry you into all sorts of extravagance. 
I am surprised,” he continued harshly, “because 
when I read your books, I was so impressed by the 
carefulness of your reasoning. Now, it seems that 
you have cast logic to the dogs.” 

“It may be,” the Doctor conceded, recovering 
his poise, “that I haven’t a logical leg to stand on. 
I confess that I am acting on impulse, rather than 
from reason. But I believe that ultimately reason 
will justify me. In the meantime, I’m not asking 
you to accept my ideas. Leave judgment to the 
future. I do, however, want your companionship 
and help.” He grinned quizzically. “ You’re not 
very busy, I take it. Suppose you go with me this 
afternoon to explore along the shore of the Sound. 
Will you?” 

“Oh, as for that, yes,” Farnham agreed read¬ 
ily enough, although without enthusiasm. “ But I 
don’t in the least see what you can expect to find.” 

“ I expect to find the shack where Andrieff lived 
with his brother,” Carney declared firmly. “Of 



230 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


course, I could hunt for it alone, but I don’t mind 
saying that I’m a bit nervous over the man I think 
may be a spy. I’d feel safer with you along. Do 
you know the street running down to the shore 
which they call Waterfront? ” Farnham nodded. 

“ Will you meet me at the foot of it at, say, two 
o’clock?” 

Farnham agreed to this, and soon thereafter 
Carney set out on his return to the hotel. The 
discomfiture over his friend’s lack of sympathy 
was quickly dissipated. As he strode along the 
pleasant highway toward the village, filling his 
lungs with invigorating air from the sea and de¬ 
lighting his eyes with the gracious hues of the 
landscape in the freshness of its summer garb, his 
spirits, momentarily depressed, rapidly mounted 
again, and he felt anew the self-confidence that 
had actuated his endeavor thus far. The walk in 
the open had whetted his appetite and he ate 
voraciously of the mid-day meal. Afterward, he 
sat for a time on the hotel porch, chatting with 
his host. At two o’clock, however, he ascended to 
his room, where he took from his valise the re¬ 
volver intended for Farnham. He placed this in 
the left pocket of his coat, and, thus prepared, he 
took himself down the street and across the bridge 
over the little river on the way to Waterfront. He 
was amused by his feeling of guiltiness as he re¬ 
sponded to the greetings of the villagers whom 



The Doctor’s Discoveries 


231 


he encountered, for he wondered what they would 
think of him were they to know of the concealed 
weapons he bore. Certainly, they would deem 
him a dangerous desperado. The usually mild 
Doctor chuckled at the thought, and strutted a 
little, gratified by an increased sense of importance 
due to the lethal armament hidden on his person. 
Let the spy beware! 

Carney turned south along Waterfront, which 
ran at a right angle from the main street down to 
the shore. The houses of the town lined both 
sides of the highway to its end. Where the street 
ceased, the Doctor came upon a tiny plot of green¬ 
sward, a miniature common with a great elm shad¬ 
ing it. Just in front, down a shelving bank lay 
a narrow inlet. Off to the right were salt mead¬ 
ows, green and bare. In the foreground on the 
right shore of the inlet was a building of corru¬ 
gated iron, which from the litter about it was ap¬ 
parently the workshop of a builder of boats. In 
the inlet itself were lying a few skiffs and launches. 
To the left stood a group of houses, but no human 
being was in sight. A rough track sloped down¬ 
ward from these to the inlet at a point where a 
bridge spanned the water. On the far side lay 
an extensive tract of the salt meadows that bor¬ 
dered to the southward on the open Sound. Be¬ 
yond these, within a distance of half a mile, the 
shore rose in ridges on which cottages had been 



232 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


built. The meadows themselves were barren of 
structures throughout their whole extent, save for 
a single roughly constructed building which stood 
not far beyond the bridge, to the right of the track, 
which ran across the meadows toward the distant 
cottages. At sight of the isolated building, Car¬ 
ney’s pulses leaped in sudden excitement. This 
might be, could be, should be the shack for which 
he sought. He hurried forward along the track 
and out on the bridge, where he halted again to 
stare eagerly at this structure that was perhaps 
the goal of his hopes. His attention was, how¬ 
ever, interrupted by a hail that sounded behind 
him. He faced about and saw Farnham trudging 
toward him from Waterfront, and responded with 
a wave of the hand. 

It was evident that the depression of the archi¬ 
tect’s morning mood had yielded, in some degree 
at least, to the wholesome influence of the day and 
his surroundings, for the tensity of his expression 
had relaxed, and he was smiling whimsically as he 
greeted his friend. 

“ Here you are,” he remarked cheerfully, “ en¬ 
tirely surrounded by nothing remarkable, so far 
as I can see. There’s not a spy in sight, much less 
an assassin — unless,” he concluded with a sudden 
change of grimness, “you take the police opinion 
of me.” 

“Just to prove that I don’t,” Carney answered, 



The Doctor’s Discoveries 


233 


“ I’ll present you with this.” With a cautious 
glance about to assure himself that no observer 
had come on the scene, he produced the formid¬ 
able-appearing revolver from his pocket, and held 
it out to the young man. 

“What’s all this?” Farnham demanded. 

“A measure of prudence,” the psychologist re¬ 
plied. “ That thundering crack I had on my head 
the other night developed a new bump of sus¬ 
piciousness. I go armed now, and I want you also 
to go armed when you’re with me. My experience 
with that chap yesterday, too, was a warning, I 
think.” 

“It seems silly,” Farnham commented, “but 
anything to oblige.” He took the weapon, and 
examined it and tested the mechanism in a manner 
that showed familiarity. “At least, it will do no 
harm, for I sha’n’t use it.” 

“Let us hope there will be no necessity,” Car¬ 
ney remarked noncommittally. Then he changed 
the subject to one of more absorbing interest, by 
announcing with an air of much complacency: 
“ I think I’ve found the shack where Andrieff put 
up with his brother.” 

“Where?” 

The psychologist pointed toward the small 
building that stood on the meadow no more than 
a furlong away beyond the bridge, and about mid¬ 
way between roadway and inlet. 



234 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“ That must be it. It’s the only building of the 
sort anywhere along the shore.” 

“ It doesn’t look much to get excited over,” was 
Farnham’s disparaging criticism, “but I suppose 
your curiosity must be gratified. This must be 
about exhibit—let’s see: There are the three 
parrots, A, B and C, then Andrieff’s Book of the 
Gospels, exhibit D, which makes the shack exhibit 
E in your collection of evidence. Well, we’ll make 
short work of it. There’s not much to see.” 

The two went down from the bridge along the 
trail for a few rods, and then walked over the 
meadow to the diminutive dwelling of boards. It 
was indeed, as Farnham had said, a simple task to 
make a thorough examination. The structure was 
square, without foundation, and the only openings 
were a doorway and one small window. Both of 
these faced toward the sea. The door itself was 
shut and fastened by a padlock. The window, 
however, was without frame or glass and permit¬ 
ted full survey of the interior. Farnham came to 
it first, glanced in, and immediately turned away 
with a contemptuous grunt. The psychologist 
took the other’s place, and thrust his head eagerly 
into the opening. For a little, the dim light after 
the brilliant sunlight without, made dimmer by his 
own obstruction of the opening, baffled his eyes. 
Then, presently, his vision cleared and he began 
to notice details within the shadowy space. But 



The Doctor’s Discoveries 


235 


those details were not of a sort to encourage his 
hopes of finding something valuable in this place. 
The room was, in fact, almost bare of furnishing. 
A deal table stood in the middle of the floor, and 
near it were two three-legged stools. There was a 
bunk against one of the side walls, filled with hay. 
No other object of any sort whatever rewarded 
the Doctor’s long scrutiny. Even after he was 
fully convinced of this barrenness, he continued 
staring into the murky interior with a growing 
sense of failure. In this moment of acute dis¬ 
appointment, he realized for the first time a defi¬ 
nite expectation that had been killed before it was 
born. He knew now that he had subconsciously 
thought to find here in the shack of Andrieff’s 
brother that thing that had counted for so much 
throughout his scheme of solving the mystery. 
The jargon of the two parrots was ringing in his 
ears again: 

“S’ ikonee.” 

“ Sto tridtsat’ dva arshina 

And following these, the two words from the 
Gospel according to John, which were emphasized 
in Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels by the smear of 
blood beneath them: 

“V’kupaVnooT 

And with the three phrases in the foreign tongue 
sounded also the translation into English, which 
stood in the mind of the psychologist as a com- 



236 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


pleted whole, the formula for the finding of Vera 
Daniloff’s lost fortune: 

“ From the icon, one hundred and thirty-two 
yards, into the pool.” 

At the outset, then, there was need of the icon 
to mark the starting point of those paces leading 
to the unknown pool wherein, it might be, the 
jewels lay hidden by the cunning of the old Rus¬ 
sian sailor in an effort to thwart enemies hot on 
his heels. Now, at last, Doctor Carney perceived 
clearly that he had anticipated the discovery of 
that icon in the shack of Andrieff’s brother. The 
idea had not risen plainly into consciousness, but 
it had dominated him none the less. It had brought 
him here full of hope, only to encounter despair. 
For the dimness within the room was not sufficient 
to hide the bareness of the four walls. There was 
nothing on any one of them — not a cupboard, or 
a shelf, or a picture of any sort. A groan of dis¬ 
appointment broke from the lips of the psycholo¬ 
gist, for his grief was bitter. Cold disillusionment 
gripped him. Here was nothing. He must begin 
his search all over again, but how, where? He 
turned away from the window slowly, reluctant to 
confess defeat to his companion. 

To the Doctor’s surprise, Farnham was not at 
hand. A swift glance about showed that the 
young man had vanished suddenly, and without 
warning. Even as he wondered, the sound of a 



The Doctor’s Discoveries 


237 


distant shot came to Carney’s ears, and, immedi¬ 
ately following it, another, a little louder and 
heavier. He looked in the direction of the re¬ 
ports, and caught a glimpse a few hundred yards 
to the eastward on the shore of the Sound of a 
form which he believed he recognized as that of 
Farnham. The man was running, and in a mo¬ 
ment disappeared from view beyond bushes that 
topped the ridge of higher ground. Without hesi¬ 
tation, Carney pulled out his automatic, and set 
off furiously in pursuit. 



CHAPTER XXII 

A VALUABLE CLUE 

D OCTOR CARNEY raced across the mead¬ 
ow with no thought of possible bogs or 
quagmire and at a rate of speed surprising in one 
who had taken no active exercise for years. He 
was panting heavily when at last he came to the 
higher ground that here formed a natural rampart 
along the shore. He rounded the clump of bushes 
screening the narrow strip of sand along the wa¬ 
ter’s edge, and abruptly halted. Farnham was vis¬ 
ible now, standing on the beach a hundred yards 
away. He was motionless, and the revolver 
clutched in his right hand was plainly visible. He 
appeared to be staring intently out over the waters 
of the Sound. The psychologist in turn looked out 
on the broad expanse of gently moving waves, 
shimmering placidly under the brilliant rays of the 
sun. There was, however, nothing to be seen 
save a smudge of smoke from the funnel of an in¬ 
visible steamer on the southeastern horizon. But 
as his eyes swept the scene in vain, there came to 
the ears of the psychologist the chugging of the 
engine of a launch, which sounded vaguely 
familiar. His gaze went in the direction of 
238 


A Valuable Clue 


239 


the sound to the stretch of water a quarter of a 
mile beyond, where the shore line bent sharply to 
the eastward. Presently, as he listened, he guessed 
the reason why the noise revealed a familiar qual¬ 
ity to his ears: it was because it came from that 
same launch in which yesterday he had seen the 
stranger who spied upon him. His guess was justi¬ 
fied within a minute when the little craft itself ap¬ 
peared traveling boldly out to sea from a point be¬ 
yond the curve in the shore. The distance was too 
great to permit certainty, but Carney was con¬ 
vinced that he recognized the man standing at the 
wheel as the one with whom he had had his experi¬ 
ence of the preceding day. It was evident that 
there had been some sort of an encounter between 
the spy and Farnham, and, too, it was equally evi¬ 
dent that the fellow had again made good his es¬ 
cape. It was with a sigh of regret over this fact 
that the Doctor slipped the automatic into his 
pocket, and trudged onward toward the architect, 
who still stood staring out over the waters of the 
Sound. 

As Carney came near, Farnham turned, and re¬ 
garded his friend with a somewhat sheepish grin. 

“I had an idea,” he said by way of greeting, 
“ that you were a bit crazy with your talk about 
a spy, but I must admit now, that, if you’re loony, 
why, so am I.” 

“ Ha! ” ejaculated the Doctor, as he came to a 



240 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 

standstill, and surveyed Farnham’s face with un¬ 
concealed triumph. “ You actually met our friend, 
the enemy. ,, 

“ If we didn’t actually meet,” was the rejoinder, 
“we came close enough to exchange salutations.” 

“ With your weapons ? I heard the shots. Tell 
me about it.” 

The young man was nothing loath. The 
strained expression had left his face, which was 
now all animation. For the moment, he was no 
longer absorbed in the misery of his situation as 
one falsely accused. The excitement of this adven¬ 
ture had diverted his mood, had thrilled him 
pleasurably, and he was eager to recount the de¬ 
tails to his no less eager auditor. 

“ It happened while you had your head stuck in 
the window of the shack. I was taking in the 
landscape and seascape, considering the possibility 
of doing some sketches while I am loafing down 
here. My eyes are pretty sharp, and presently I 
fancied I made out a movement among the bushes 
where they begin back there on the ridge. I 
watched the spot closely, and pretty soon I became 
sure somebody was standing behind them, peering 
in the direction of the shack. It seemed as if 
there was something sly and stealthy about the 
whole performance. That made me think of your 
story about the spy yesterday, which I hadn’t taken 
much stock in. I offer you my sincere apologies 



A Valuable Clue 241 


for thinking that your imagination had run away 
with you. My own is just as lively now. Any¬ 
how, that fellow watching us got on my nerves, 
and I made up my mind to investigate. I started 
to walk toward him. Then, almost at once, he 
disappeared. I guessed that he was making off 
along the shore in order to escape me. That 
didn’t suit me at all, and I started to run in the 
hope of catching up with him and getting a look 
at him. I thought it might be interesting to know 
whether or not the chap’s a Russian.” 

“Quite so!” Carney agreed, nodding his head 
vigorously. 

“Well,” Farnham went on, “ I failed to acquire 
any information as to his nationality, but I 
gathered evidence that he is in earnest. When I 
broke through the bushes, and came to the edge of 
the bluff, there was the fellow running along the 
beach, almost up to the bend. He was too far 
away and moving too rapidly for me to make out 
anything definite about him, beyond the fact that 
he was of about my size or a little shorter, and 
from the way he sprinted, in capital condition. I 
let out a yell at him — a silly performance, but I 
wanted him to stop and wait for an interview. 
His wishes were quite different. He heard me, all 
right, for he looked over his shoulder without 
checking his stride. The next thing I knew, he 
whirled, just pausing for the fraction of a sec- 



242 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ond. I heard a bullet sing past, so close I instinc¬ 
tively ducked. As the report of the shot came, 
he was already whisking around the bend. The 
shot halted me in my tracks, just from the utter 
surprise of it. It made me mighty angry, too, and 
I went after my own gun as fast as I could. I had 
the satisfaction of blazing away at his coat tails 
as he dodged round the bend, and that’s all the 
satisfaction I did have. I started running again, 
but when I got this far, I heard the launch and 
knew that he had got away.” Farnham waved his 
hand. “There he is out there now—and here we 
are.What’s the answer ? ” 

Once again, and more deeply than heretofore, 
the Doctor was thrilled by the march of events. It 
was, indeed, amazing to realize that he was the 
storm-center, so to speak, of intrigues and activi¬ 
ties so sinister, so deadly. He had not been dis¬ 
heartened by the previous skepticism of Farnham, 
but he was made more prideful by the young man’s 
present appreciation of tKe seriousness of the in¬ 
vestigation with which they were engaged. 

“ What has just happened,” he declared solemn¬ 
ly, “ is proof that the course I have pursued should 
lead to a development of prime importance.” 

“ Such as you or I, or both of us, getting shot,” 
Farnham suggested, with a smile that took the 
edge from his sarcasm. 

“ I am not to be daunted by personal peril,” the 



A Valuable Clue 


243 


little psychologist announced, with a relish in his 
tone that astonished his companion. “ My own 
opinion is that things are falling out just right for 
us. For some unknown reason, this enemy has 
trailed me. He means to know anything that I 
may learn. And it’s only reasonable to suppose 
that the spy hopes, through me, to recover Vera 
Daniloff’s jewels, for the possession of which An- 
drieff was murdered — in vain, as I now believe. 
The spy is either the agent of the murderer, or he 
is the murderer himself.” 

Farnham nodded assent. 

“ I believe you’re right. It appears that this 
wild-goose chase of yours, as I first thought it, is 
mighty important to me, for it may give us a 
chance to catch this fellow, and so clear up the 
mystery and the suspicion that rests on me. That’s 
my one hope of salvation. So, Doctor, I’m at 
your orders.” 

“This is an affair for mutual consideration, not 
for orders,” Carney returned, with a deprecatory 
gesture. But his friend’s change of view increased 
his self-satisfaction. 

“No,” Farnham persisted, “you are the captain 
of this expedition. I am not psychic-” 

“Nor am I!” the Doctor interposed hastily. 
But the other gave no heed to the interruption. 

“-nor do I have impulses and leadings of 

an occult sort. In short, I am prosaic and prac- 





244 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


tical; I’m not in the least intuitive. You, on the 
contrary, are a marvel at intuitions, you’re a weird 
wonder, and I take off my hat to you, because you 
follow up your psychic perceptions with excellent 
reasoning. But it’s not the reasoning that starts 
you.” 

“Hum!” Carney mused, “now, is it pos¬ 
sible— ” He fell silent, reflecting seriously on 
the problem presented by Farnham’s bantering 
words. He was interrupted presently by a ques¬ 
tion from the architect. 

“Were you able to see anything significant in¬ 
side the shack?” 

The Doctor roused himself with a start, and 
shook his head dejectedly. 

“There’s nothing in the shack,” he replied, 
“ though I had hoped much from it.” Somewhat 
shamefacedly, he explained the unacknowledged 
expectation that had brought him hither, the assur¬ 
ance that here he would find the icon, basic point 
in the formula for the recovery of the Russian 
girl’s treasure. And now, curiously enough, 
Farnham listened with a respectful attention that 
he would by no means have accorded an hour 
earlier in the day. He was coming to trust blindly 
in the vaguest and the wildest of Doctor Carney’s 
inspirations. He only shrugged his shoulders 
when Carney voiced utter disappointment over 
failure in the matter of the sacred picture. 



A Valuable Clue 


245 


“Eat a hearty supper,” he advised cheerfully, 
“ and sleep soundly, and I’ll warrant you’ll bob 
up in the morning with an idea snatched out of 
the absolute by your subconscious — if that’s the 
way to express it—and the idea will be a right 
one.” He clapped the little man on the shoulder, 
and urged him forward. “You’d best be getting 
on or you’ll be late for supper. I’ll keep with you 
up to Main Street. Better keep close to the hotel, 
and not give the enemy a chance at you.” 

The two walked in silence after this, or only 
chatted of commonplaces until they came to the 
thoroughfare where their ways diverged. 

They separated after the Doctor had promised 
a visit at the bungalow next morning. 

As he went on his way alone, Carney suffered a 
reaction from the excitement that had buoyed his 
spirits hitherto throughout the day. A heavy de¬ 
pression lay upon him, and made his mood one of 
profound discouragement, which continued while 
he made his preparations for the evening meal and 
afterward throughout that repast. It had not 
diminished even when later on he was established 
in a comfortable chair on the porch with his pipe 
for companionship and, for perfunctory entertain¬ 
ment, the flitting parade of automobiles on the 
roadway and the intermittent passing of villagers 
on the walks. The Doctor found no relief from 
the weariness of soul that had so suddenly de- 



246 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


scended upon him. It seemed to him, indeed, that 
all his high hopes had been shattered. He had 
esteemed himself as the agent of destiny, and now 
that esteem was proved the worst of delusions. 
The revelation as to the futility of his efforts had 
come with the discovery that the shack on the 
meadow could offer him no guidance in his search. 
Farnham’s adventure with the unknown man had 
delayed full recognition of the catastrophe. Now, 
however, with nothing to distract him, the psychol¬ 
ogist confronted the complete fiasco of all his 
efforts. He nibbled vindictively at the bristles of 
his mustache in the intervals between vigorous 
whiffs from the pipe, and the hectic color high on 
his cheeks deepened while his eyes blinked almost 
unseeingly through the thick lenses of his glasses. 
The various events that had brought him to this 
pass marched in review before him, and from none 
of them could he derive a hint for comfort. His 
ears echoed with the guttural cries of the two par¬ 
rots, and before his eyes showed the third parrot, 
monstrous in its dumbness, with fluttering wings 
and gaping beak wherein was the useless stump of 
tongue. Before his sight rose, too, the soiled and 
crumpled page in Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels f 
on which began the fifth chapter of the Gospel ac¬ 
cording to John, where stood forth the two words 
in Russian made conspicuous by the smear of blood 
beneath them. Over and over in his brain ran 



r A Valuable Clue 


247 


the refrain made by the joined phrases of the two 
parrots, and those words from the sacred text that 
he had dared believe those belonging to the stilled 
voice of the third parrot. “ From the icon, one 
hundred and thirty-two yards, into the pool.” The 
cryptic direction had inspired him to fantastic ex¬ 
pectations— expectations worse than fantastic, 
puerile, silly. The words beat in his head as an 
un-rhythmic dirge. They had become meaningless. 
No longer was there hidden in them the promise 
of achievement. They were no better than the 
veriest nonsense, nor ever had been. In his ab¬ 
surd egotism, he had ventured to believe that the 
jumble of syllables was actually a clue to the hid¬ 
ing place of Vera Daniloff’s treasure. The Doc¬ 
tor grinned derisively at his own credulity. Al¬ 
most unaware of his own fancy, he had made this 
expedition in confident anticipation of finding here 
the icon that should serve as the starting point for 
marking out the precise spot in which the gems lay 
hidden. And there was no icon. The walls of 
the shack on the salt meadow were bare. No 
sacred picture hung there, or ever had, in all 
probability. The idea that had dominated him 
was wholly extravagant, proved worthless by the 
fact. Melancholy enwrapped the discomfited 
psychologist as a pall. 

Carney was aroused at last from his profitless 
reflections by the coming of the young proprietor 



248 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


of the hotel, who seated himself in an adjoining 
chair, and remarked pleasantly of the mildness of 
the evening. The two men chatted aimlessly for 
a few minutes. Then, the subject that was para¬ 
mount in the Doctor’s mind influenced him in the 
choice of a topic. 

“ I went down Waterfront today,” he remarked 
as carelessly as he could contrive, “ and crossed over 
the bridge, and went along the shore. I saw a 
little shack there on the meadow. I went over to 
it out of curiosity. The door was padlocked, but 
I looked in at the window. It doesn’t seem to be 
occupied. I suppose it belongs to some artist who 
goes there to sketch,” he concluded with a rising 
inflection of interrogation. He was secretly 
pleased at his cunning in framing the question thus. 

“No,” was the prompt answer. “It was orig¬ 
inally put up by an artist, some years ago, who 
paid something for permission to Hull, the owner 
of the meadow along there. But he only occupied 
it a single season. Afterward, Hull let the shack 
stand, and lately a Slovak has camped there. But 
he’s gone now.” 

“ Oh, he’s gone,” the Doctor repeated mechan¬ 
ically. “A Slovak, you said.” 

“That’s a pretty wide term, ot course. I’ve 
heard somebody say that he was a Russian. He 
couldn’t talk any English to speak of, but he was 
quiet and industrious. I looked in on him one day 



A Valuable Clue 


249 


when I was down that way. I mean that literally. 
I just looked in on him, and then went away with¬ 
out saying a word.” The speaker paused to 
chuckle amusedly over the memory. “I didn’t 
want to intrude.” 

“How was that?” the psychologist asked curi¬ 
ously. 

“Why, it was simply this way: When I came 
up to the shack, the door stood wide open. I 
naturally looked in, and there the old chap was. 
Of course, walking over the grass that way there 
wasn’t any noise of my footsteps, and I hadn’t 
sung out, so the old fellow wasn’t disturbed, and 
was steadily going ahead with his business with¬ 
out any suspicion of a visitor.” 

“And what was this business?” Carney de¬ 
manded, as the other paused. His interest was 
vaguely excited though, for the life of him, he 
could seen no reason why it should be. The soli¬ 
tary occupation of Andrieff’s brother could by no 
possible stretch of imagination be of concern to 
him or to his quest. 

“ His business was religious,” came the surpris¬ 
ing information, followed by another chuckle of 
enjoyment at the memory. “ I’m laughing because 
the joke was on me. Perhaps I’m not very strong 
on religion myself, but I respect it in others, and 
so, then, I tiptoed away as quietly as I could with¬ 
out ever letting him know that he’d had a caller.” 



250 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“ But just what was he doing? ” 

“ He was down on his marrow bones with his 
back to me at the door. He was close up to the 
wall, facing it, and he was mumbling away to him¬ 
self in his own language, I suppose, for I could 
make nothing of it, and he was crossing himself 
to beat the band.” 

The Doctor snapped erect in his chair with a 
suddenness that startled his companion. By a 
great effort, he sought to restrain further outward 
evidence of the excitement that boiled within him. 

“ Got a little cramp,” he explained lamely, after 
a brief delay to make sure that he could hold his 
voice steady. Then he went on, speaking casually. 
“ Kneeling to a crucifix, I suppose.” Again, he 
complimented himself on his artfulness. 

“No,” came the reply, accompanied by a shake 
of the head. “ It was just a picture he had hang¬ 
ing there on the wall right opposite the door—a 
religious picture. I’ve read,” he explained ami¬ 
ably to his absorbed listener, “ that every house in 
Russia has them, and they say their prayers to 
them. There’s a particular name for that kind 
of a picture, but I forget it.” 

“An icon!” The word was hardly more than 
a whisper, breathed gently from the Doctor’s 
trembling lips. A flaming exultation mounted 
within him, before which the mists of melancholy 
vanished away utterly. He repeated the word, a 



A Valuable Clue 


251 


little more loudly, but in a hushed tone as of awe 
in the presence of a miracle. 

“An icon!” 



CHAPTER XXIII 

ANOTHER MYSTERY 


7 TER he had said good night to his host, and 



ii had gone to his room, Doctor Carney was 
all afire with eagerness to be up and doing without 
an instant of delay. It seemed to him in his first 
enthusiasm that he must immediately put this new 
discovery to the test, that he must go forthwith to 
the shack on the meadow, and there search for 
the jewels of Vera Daniloff. But sanity counseled 
postponement. A little reflection brought pru¬ 
dence. He realized that alone in the darkness he 
could by no means make the search with such care¬ 
fulness as would be essential to its success. More¬ 
over, in spite of a recently developed audacity, he 
perceived that the project would be too reckless, 
since there was the spy to be reckoned with, that 
mysterious stranger who kept at his heels, who 
might be at this very moment lurking somewhere 
without in the shadows, waiting for an opportu¬ 
nity to strike him down. And the man was un¬ 
doubtedly dangerous, a fellow who did not hesi¬ 
tate at violence, quick with a weapon, as he had 
demonstrated in the episode of the afternoon. It 
was this same sinister figure of the unknown that 


252 


Another Mystery 


253 


warned the Doctor against an attempt to visit 
Farnham at once. He was fairly bursting with de¬ 
sire to carry the news to the architect, but discre¬ 
tion forbade the journey over deserted country 
roads at such an hour. It would be foolhardy to 
run the risk of being ambushed by an unscrupulous 
foe. Common sense insisted that further action 
must be delayed until the morrow. The psycholo¬ 
gist reluctantly yielded to the dictates of his own 
reasoning, and determined to wait with what pa¬ 
tience he could. He was still in a state of exalta¬ 
tion, and in his ears sounded more loudly and per¬ 
sistently than ever before the cries of the two par¬ 
rots and the two words marked by the bloodstain 
in Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels, which, he now 
made sure, was the phrase that forever sought ut¬ 
terance from the gaping beak of the third parrot 
— sought, and sought in vain. 

“S’ ikonee , sto tridtsat’ dva arshina, v y 
kupal’noo.” 

And with the reiteration of the Russian words, 
there sounded as insistently the translation into 
English. 

u From the icon, one hundred and thirty-two 
yards, into the pool.” 

The effect within the brain of the exalted psy¬ 
chologist was that of a tremendous antiphonal 
chorus and this chorus was a paean of triumph. 

The Doctor’s mood of exaltation continued, but 



254 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


it was speedily obscured by a great lassitude, a 
sudden weariness of the body and the mind, which, 
nevertheless, left the spirit untouched. The day 
had been strenuous for one of sedentary habits 
through a long term of years. The active exercise 
in the open air and the excitement undergone had 
taken toll of his energy. Fatigue mastered him. 
It required a strong effort of will to get off his 
clothes, and make ready for the night. He was 
fast asleep before his head touched the pillow, and 
slept dreamlessly until awakened by the sunlight 
in his eyes. He was chagrined to find that he had 
overslept, and by so much had delayed carrying 
the news to Farnham. By way of compensation, 
however, he found himself fully refreshed, vibrant 
with vigors of a physical sort that were unfamiliar 
and most agreeable. His spirit was still uplifted 
with the feeling of victorious achievement, and it 
seemed to him that his body as well shared har¬ 
moniously in his spirit’s mood. He ate ravenous¬ 
ly, though hurriedly, and immediately afterward 
set out for the bungalow. 

Farnham greeted his visitor with an air of cheer¬ 
fulness that contrasted sharply with his despond¬ 
ency of the morning before. It was evident that 
the adventure of the previous afternoon had di¬ 
verted him from overmuch melancholy brooding 
on his unfortunate situation. His manner now 
was alert, and he smiled down on the little psy- 



Another Mystery 


255 


chologist with an expression mildly tolerant as 
toward one erratic, but withal wholly admiring. 

It was the Doctor’s intention to be precise and 
dignified in his presentation of the facts. But his 
effort in the way of a calm and matter-of-fact salu¬ 
tation did not in the least deceive Farnham. 

“Now, now, Doctor,” the young man ex¬ 
claimed, as his smile widened into a grin of appre¬ 
ciation, “ you’ve gone and plucked something out 
of the absolute, just as I said you would. Tell 

w _ n 

me. 

“Not at all, not at all,” the psychologist de¬ 
nied, making a visible effort to maintain a superior 
manner. “ Nothing recondite, I assure you. But 
I have managed to acquire a bit of information by 
a means entirely prosaic.” 

“Aha! I knew it,” Farnham declared. “ Come 
in and sit down, and we’ll have the story.” 

Carney, with some difficulty, remained silent 
until the two were comfortably established in the 
living-room of the bungalow, and he had his pipe 
going. Then, at last, he related what he had 
learned from the conversation with the hotel- 
keeper. 

“ So,” he concluded, “ there’s the point indicated 
for the beginning of the search. Evidently, An- 
drieff’s brother has gone, but the shack is there on 
the meadow. He carried off his icon with him, 
but we know now that it was there on the wall of 



256 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


the shack, right opposite the door. It’s the start¬ 
ing point, I tell you. Its absence makes no differ¬ 
ence. The measure of the distance runs from the 
place where it hung on the wall. We must begin 
the search at once. I believe it will be a very 
simple matter. ,, 

“Maybe,” Farnham conceded grudgingly, but 
he shook his head dubiously. “To an ordinary 
person like myself, your ideas, Doctor, seem a 
little highfalutin, but you’re in a class of your 
own. After you’ve had luncheon with me, we’ll 
put this latest theory of yours to the test.” 

Carney would have preferred an immediate 
start, although it was already noon. He yielded 
to his host’s insistence, however, and ate heartily 
of the meal hastily improvised out of Farnham’s 
well-stocked larder. After a further delay for a 
digestive smoke on which the young man insisted, 
much to the other’s impatience, the two set forth, 
and followed the highway back to the town and 
down Waterfront to the shore. The day had 
grown unseasonably warm, with a promise of com¬ 
ing storm in the damp, heavy air. The rapid walk 
taxed the energies of the psychologist, and he was 
glad to halt for a few moments on the bridge 
spanning the inlet, to let his breathing grow quieter 
and to mop his face, which was streaming with 
perspiration. Farnham regarded the older man 
with solicitude. 



Another Mystery 


257 


“Take it a bit easy, Doctor,” he counseled. 
“ You’ve been going it pretty hard for one of your 
habits.” 

Carney smiled with an air of superiority. 

“I am convinced,” he retorted, “that ‘going 
it hard,’ as you express it, is exactly what I needed. 
The fact is, I never felt better in my life. I re¬ 
quired a shaking up, and I’ve had it — am having 
it—and it’s bully. I’m sweating just now partly 
because the weather has turned muggy, and partly 
because I’m excited. Let’s go.” 

The two descended from the bridge, and, leav¬ 
ing the roadway, crossed the meadow to the 
shack. 

“Wait a minute,” Carney directed. “I want 
to take another look in at the window.” He thrust 
his head through the opening, and stared about 
the shadowed room blinkingly, impatient of the 
delay necessary for the adjustment of his eyes 
to the dim light. At last, after a wearisome in¬ 
terval as it seemed to him, his vision cleared, and 
he was able to observe the bare interior with suf¬ 
ficient distinctness. He centered his attention on 
that point of the roughly boarded wall which was 
immediately opposite the door. Memory repeated 
to him what the hotel-keeper had said as to the 
Russian’s kneeling on the floor directly in line with 
the door and facing the wall. It was this part 
of the wall, before which the foreigner had thus 



258 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


reverently prostrated himself, that now received 
closest scrutiny from the eager psychologist. His 
straining eyes traversed length and breadth of the 
area opposite the door, and, presently, an ejacula¬ 
tion of intense satisfaction broke from his lips. 
His gaze remained fixed for a few moments on a 
point in the central section of the wall, at about 
the height of his own head had he been standing 
there. Satisfied, the Doctor withdrew from the 
window opening, and addressed Famham, who 
had been engaged in a careful survey of both land 
and water, in order to make sure that the spy was 
nowhere visible. 

“ I have verified the testimony already re¬ 
ceived, n Carney announced, and his voice was 
triumphant. “ I have proof, of a negative sort, so 
to speak, that the icon hung on the wall exactly 
opposite the door, just as I was told. There is ai 
place some inches in extent, of about the size the 
icon would be, which is noticeably lighter than the 
other part of the wall surrounding it. That is 
evidently the spot where the picture hung.” 

“ Reasonable enough,” Farnham admitted. 

“ I am deeply ashamed of my perceptive pow¬ 
ers,” the psychologist continued. Then, in an¬ 
swer to the young man’s look of inquiry, he ex¬ 
plained tersely. “I should, of course, have ob¬ 
served this fact yesterday, and have deduced the 
truth from it.” 



Another Mystery _ 259 

Farnham nodded. 

“ It’s my belief,” he responded, with an amiable 
grin, “ that your method of detection is not deduc¬ 
tive. You go right to the fountain head, to the 
absolute, for information.” 

Doctor Carney changed the subject abruptly. 

“Let’s begin,” he urged. “You’re better built 
for pacing yards, so suppose you measure off the 
distance.” 

“What is it exactly?” 

“The Russian is, Sto tridtsaf dva arshina” 
was the pompous reply, “that is to say, a hun¬ 
dred and thirty-two yards.” 

“ Straight out in a line from the point midway 
on the wall through the door and on over the 
meadow, a total distance of a hundred and thirty- 
two yards.” 

“ That’s it. Stand with your back to the door, 
and go ahead.” 

“Wait a moment,” Farnham objected. “We 
have to subtract the width of the space between 
the door and the wall from our total of a hun¬ 
dred and thirty-two yards. That will be, say, three 
yards off.” 

“A hundred and twenty-nine paces then.” 

“Yes. But I’m not encouraged by the pros¬ 
pect.” Farnham’s voice was so brusque that Car¬ 
ney regarded him in dismay. 

“ What’s the matter now? ” 



260 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 

“The matter is that I don’t need to pace the 
distance in order to know that the attempt will 
be a failure. You can see, Doctor, from here with 
the naked eye that there is no pool anywhere be¬ 
tween here and the shore. Besides, we know that 
because we chased across the meadow right on 
this line yesterday after that spy of yours, and we 
didn’t splash through so much as a mudhole, 
much less a pool.” 

“ But there must be a pool,” Carney insisted 
desperately. 

“There must be to bear out your theory,” was 
the dry retort, “ but there isn’t as a matter of fact. 
I’m pretty nearly as sorry as you are, Doctor, but 
I’m afraid you’re dished.” 

Nevertheless, the psychologist refused to be con¬ 
vinced without a further struggle. He did not at¬ 
tempt to argue, but, after a hurried nibbling at his 
mustache as if for inspiration, he suddenly ad¬ 
vanced to the doorway, and after pausing there 
with his back to it, he moved forward in a straight 
line, stepping slowly and high and long, evidently 
pacing conscientiously to the best of his ability, 
performing for himself the task refused by his 
companion as useless. Farnham followed in the 
Doctor’s wake. At another time, he would have 
been amused by the ridiculous figure of the little 
man striding so laboriously and awkwardly over 
the meadow. Now, however, he had no heart for 



Another Mystery 


261 


mirth, since he realized how grievous to this friend 
must be this failure of high hopes. It was indeed, 
as he had said, there was nowhere any least sign 
of a pool throughout the expanse of the meadow 
where it lay spread between the inlet to the right 
and the raised track of the road on the left, with 
the shore of the Sound as boundary in front. The 
ground lay level as a whole, with only slight de¬ 
pressions in the surface here and there, uneven¬ 
nesses massed by the rank growth of grass. 

So, Doctor Carney came to the last of the hun¬ 
dred and twenty-nine paces, and halted, and stood 
silent, staring about him intently. He stood dry- 
shod, and nowhere could his searching glances find 
a trace of the pool for which he longed. The 
words of the parrot that was dumb were roaring 
in his ears: “ V’ kupal ) noo ) v’ kupal’noo, v’ ku - 
pal’noo!” —the words over the smear of blood in 
Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels: “V’ kupal’noo, 
v’ kupal’noo, v’ kupal’noo! ”—“Into the pool!” 
— and there was no pool. Farnham, too, stood 
silent. He could think of no word of comfort to 
offer his friend in this moment of misery. 

At last, after a long interval, Carney spoke. 

“It might be at any point in a circle with the 
radius of a hundred and thirty-two yards, starting 
from a point where the icon hung. There is noth¬ 
ing to show that the line ran through the door¬ 
way.” 



262 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“That doesn’t help any,” Farnham replied. 
“It only needs a look to know that there is no 
pool on this meadow.” 

There was another long period of silence. Then, 
the Doctor spoke authoritatively. 

“If you don’t mind, Farnham, I wish you’d 
leave me here for a while. I want to think. I 
haven’t done any real thinking since I’ve become 
mixed up in this affair. Now, if ever, is the time 
for it.” 

“ Right you are,” the young man agreed. “ I’ll 
go back to my place. If you can stand another 
picked-up meal, come along when you’re ready, 
and join me for supper.” 

The psychologist nodded acceptance of the in¬ 
vitation. 

“ I’ll come. Good-bye.” Without further 
word, he started walking away toward the shore 
of the Sound. A sudden thought caused Farn¬ 
ham to call after him. 

“But what about that spy? Supposing he 
should turn up?” 

Carney flared. He did not pause, but spoke 
over his shoulder, as his hand slipped into the coat 
pocket where lay the automatic. 

“ Damn him,” he gritted. “ I hope he does.” 



CHAPTER XXIV 

A CLUE FROM THE SEA 

D OCTOR CARNEY walked forward briskly 
across the meadow, without a backward 
glance. When he came to the little ridge that 
rose from the meadow along the shore of the 
Sound, he rounded the bushes growing on the 
crest, and seated himself on the grassy bank, a 
miniature bluff overlooking the narrow strip of 
sandy beach below at the water’s edge. The spy, 
of whom he had spoken with such unaccustomed 
violence, was still in his mind, and on his way to 
this spot he had looked carefully all about to make 
sure that the enemy was not lurking somewhere 
near. Now, his eyes roved the shoreline, still 
seeking any sign of the stranger’s presence. No 
one, however, was anywhere visible within the dis¬ 
tance of his vision. There was not even a launch 
in sight off shore. It was possible that the man 
might be hidden beyond the bend, a few hundred 
yards further to the eastward, at which point he 
had made his escape in the launch the day before; 
but, if this were the case, he could not approach 
nearer without revealing himself, since the strag¬ 
gling bushes of the rising ground offered scant 
263 


264 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


cover. Carney was certain that the fellow would 
not venture an open attack thus by daylight, what¬ 
ever his ultimate purpose might be. So, though he 
maintained watchfulness, he dismissed the enemy 
from further consideration, and gave himself over 
to miserable brooding on the manner in which his 
hopes had been blasted. At first, his mood of 
utter dejection continued unabated. By so much 
as he had anticipated triumph, by so much despair 
was now his portion. It seemed to him that the 
failure was complete, irremediable. The formula 
had proved a delusion under the test. There was 
nothing left. All of his efforts, in the culmination, 
had but demonstrated that his whole theory was 
no better than a chimera of the imagination, 
worthless, nonsensical. 

Yet, as the dragging minutes passed, Carney 
became aware of something that astonished him 
vastly. In spite of the crushing disappointment, in 
spite of despair, in spite of the evidence of his 
own senses, hope was not dead. It had been sore¬ 
ly stricken; nevertheless, it was still alive. It 
stirred there at the back of his mind, torpid, un¬ 
certain, yet living. Presently, he became actively 
aware of that persistence. Something within him 
remained undaunted in the face of disaster. A 
feeling of restored confidence in himself mani¬ 
fested. It was without justification by reason, but 
the psychologist had recently attained a stage of 



r A Clue from the Sea _ 265 

development that could disregard the demands of 
reason, could deny them without a qualm. He 
welcomed the change of mood. In sheer despera¬ 
tion, he dared again believe in a theory already 
proved wrong by the facts. He realized that he 
could contrive no alternative scheme. He must, 
then, hold to his original idea — else, he would 
have nothing. He boldly reverted to the formula 
of Russian words gathered from the parrots and 
Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels . In them, and in 
them alone, was the possible promise of success. 
Apart from them, he was powerless. “ From the 
icon, one hundred and thirty-two yards, into the 
pool.” Somehow, there must be truth in the 
phrases; somehow, they must be interpreted aright. 
But how? The Doctor smiled grimly at himself. 
He was prepared to admit that the clear thinking 
on which he had so prided himself would avail 
nothing. He must, instead, await an inspiration, 
an intuitive perception, a flash of illumination that 
would bring light into the darkness of futile men¬ 
tal processes. Or, as Farnham so flippantly sug¬ 
gested, a bit of information must be boldly plucked 
out of the absolute. 

Carney’s session with his own thoughts calmed 
him. The turmoil of his spirit became stilled. 
He reached the comfortable conclusion that vic¬ 
tory remained a possibility, notwithstanding the 
disaster of the afternoon. It was only necessary 




266 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


to await the issue passively. Something essential 
would be revealed, to change defeat to triumph. 
The Doctor cast the weight of responsibility from 
him, and relaxed. He took new note of his sur¬ 
roundings without a thought of the spy, and found 
pleasure in them. A smile of amusement bent his 
lips at the ease with which he denied all logical 
requirements, and gave himself to an unreasoning 
faith. 

The air was still heavy with moisture, and the 
fleecy clouds of the morning had taken on a black¬ 
ened bulk warning of storm. Yet, here overlook¬ 
ing the placid waves of the Sound, which still 
shimmered under the rays of the westering sun, an 
agreeable freshness was borne in the breeze, light 
and warm, and carrying a tang of the salt sea. 
The Doctor looked out over the water of the 
Sound, and found the sight a most pleasant one. 
His eyes followed the easy rise and dip of gulls 
in their endless quest for food, counted the smoke 
trails of distant steamers plying the horizon to the 
southeast. He even felt a little thrill of excite¬ 
ment when his gaze became fixed on an object 
westward, on the beach beyond the mouth of the 
inlet, and he was able to recognize it as a heron, 
standing motionless at ease, with one leg snuggled 
restfully out of sight. His eyes moved slowly back 
from the bird across the inlet and over the strip of 
sand on the nearer side, until they came to rest on 



A Clue from the Sea _267 


the wavelets ceaselessly lapping against the pebbles 
of the shore just below his perch on the bank. It 
was with idle interest that he regarded the rhyth¬ 
mic swinging to and fro of the tiny crest. It was 
pleasant to scan the languid, undulate movement 
of the water, restful, lulling. Then, presently, he 
became aware that the advance and retreat of the 
little waves were not quite evenly balanced: there 
was slow progress toward the shore, an encroach¬ 
ing of the water by minute degrees, steadily. With 
no particular interest, Carney observed to himself 
that the tide was coming in. The fact, however, 
served to remind him of the passage of time. He 
cast a speculative eye toward the sun, which now 
dipped close to the horizon, and decided that it 
was time for him to start on the walk to Farn- 
ham’s bungalow. He got to his feet, and moved 
off smartly, back along the way he had come. He 
descended from the ridge, and stepped out on the 
meadow. But he halted, with an exclamation of 
mingled surprise and annoyance, then turned and 
jumped back to the higher ground. He looked 
again out over the meadow, and saw sparkling 
within the meshes of grass the layer of water 
brought in by the tide. He had no wish to wade 
ankle deep, and so looked about him. Further to 
the eastward, the higher ground spread inland, 
and reached to the roadway. The roadway itself 
was built up a few feet beyond the level of the salt- 



268 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


meadows on either side of it, and the reason for 
this was now obvious. Carney followed the 
higher ground to the road, and thus onward to 
the bridge. Here he paused for a moment, to 
stare dubiously at the shack, and at the meadow 
lying outspread before it, where already the 
spears of grass were almost wholly submerged. 

“Soon,” Carney mused, “the entire place will 
be just one big pool.” The thought was mocking. 
But the mockery of it fired the train of understand¬ 
ing. It was in this moment that the flash of illu¬ 
mination came. It was as if he had a vision, in 
which he saw the tide running out hours later, 
flowing back, away from the meadows, and, as it 
went, leaving here and there in every hollow of 
the ground a little pool — a pool that would re¬ 
main— a brief span of time until emptied by 
slow seeping into the earth. Once again, Carney 
heard the cries of the parrots, saw the blood- 
marked words in the Book of the Gospels — that 
unuttered phrase of the third parrot, which was 
dumb: 

“S’ ikonee, sto tridtsat’ dva arshina, v 
kupal’noo.” 

Mechanically, the doctor translated the words 
into English: 

“ From the icon, one hundred and thirty-two 
yards, into the pool.” 

And he added, almost with reverence as he 



A Clue from the Sea 


269 


muttered the words: 

“Into the pool! Yes — when the tide’s gone 
out!” 

Then, almost running in his haste, Carney set 
out for the bungalow. 



CHAPTER XXV 


THE SECRET POOL 


\ HE approached the head of Waterfront, 



Doctor Carney slackened his pace in hesita¬ 
tion. The threat of storm was not to be disre¬ 
garded. The ominous signs in the sky promised a 
drenching downpour that would not be long de¬ 
layed. Already, the fitful breeze had died, and 
the humid air was still in that oppressive calm 
which presages the tempest. It occurred to the 
psychologist that he would do well by returning to 
the hotel so near at hand, there to don the light 
raincoat of oiled silk which he had brought in the 
valise, and to equip himself with the electric torch, 
which also he had thoughtfully included in his bag¬ 
gage, since on the road beyond the village street 
the way would be unlighted, and the darkness of a 
rainy night would make the going difficult, even 
dangerous. The little delay involved by returning 
to the hotel would not matter in the least, for the 
evening had scarcely begun, and no precise time 
for his arrival at the bungalow had been set. 

“And it isn’t as if my being late would ruin 
the masterpieces of a French chef,” the Doctor re¬ 
flected, and he smiled wryly at thought of the sort 


270 


The Secret Pool 


271 


of meal that would await him at the bungalow. 
For he realized suddenly that he was very, very 
hungry. Visions of rich, satisfying viands floated 
in his brain as he turned to the left in the main 
street and hurried toward the hotel. He thought 
with distaste of Farnham’s proffered hospitality 
from a larder of tinned things. The result was 
that he presently entered the dining room of the 
hotel, and ate to repletion of the excellent hot 
dishes set before him. He had no qualms of 
conscience over such treachery to his friend. New 
energy from the food coursed in his blood, and he 
felt himself equal to any endeavor. The meal 
done, he paused only to smoke a single pipe in his 
room, then donned the raincoat and, with torch 
and automatic safely stowed in the pockets, set out 
on the tramp to the bungalow. 

With the setting of the sun, night had closed in 
rapidly under the inky canopy of clouds. By the 
time Carney turned into the highway running to 
the left from the end of the village street, and 
the electric lights were left behind, the darkness 
had become such that flashes from the torch were 
necessary in order to make sure of the path. 
Luckily, however, the rain held off, and in due 
time he arrived at the bungalow without a wet¬ 
ting. 

Farnham greeted his guest with hospitable 
amiability. 



272 Th e Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“ I was afraid the weather might scare you off,” 
he said, smiling, “but I might have known better. 
How are you feeling, anyhow?” 

The radiant face of the psychologist was of 
itself a sufficient answer. He spoke proudly: 

“ I’m feeling, since you ask me, er — sublime! ” 

Farnham’s smile widened. 

“Oho! You’ve plucked something again out of 
the-” 

Carney held up a restraining hand. 

“Not out of the absolute this time — out of the 
sea. Knowledge flowed upon me, so to speak. 
It wet my feet.” In answer to his friend’s be¬ 
wildered expression, he explained the idea that 
had come to him from the rising of the tide. The 
young man listened intently, nodding from time 
to time. 

“ You do beat the Dutch, Doctor,” he exclaimed 
admiringly, as the other came to an end of the 
narrative. “ Knowledge comes to you in mighty 
curious ways, but it comes — out of the squawking 
of parrots, out of a blood-stained book, out of the 
ocean. What next?” 

“Next is to get Vera Daniloff’s jewelry,” was 
the sententious reply. “We mustn’t lose a min¬ 
ute.” 

Farnham looked doubtful. 

“ It’s not going to be a nice night for such an 
expedition,” he protested. “Anyhow, I’m hungry 




Tfie Secret Pool 


273 


and it will be better if we eat first.” 

“I offer you my apologies,” the Doctor said 
blandly, quite unabashed by his breach of etiquette, 
“ but I’ve already eaten at the hotel. I had to — 
I was so hungry.” 

Farnham laughed. 

“ I don’t blame you, and you are forgiven, pro¬ 
vided you’ll curb your impatience long enough for 
me to eat a bite myself.” 

“ Fair enough,” the psychologist agreed. He 
seated himself, and filled his pipe, which he 
smoked energetically while the architect made 
ready and hurriedly consumed a simple repast. 
The meal was not yet ended when there came a 
downpour of rain. Farnham regarded Carney in¬ 
quiringly. 

“ You don’t think it would be wiser to wait for 
the next tide?” 

“No.” A vigorous neadshake emphasized the 
negative. “ There is always danger in delay, 
and—“I don’t trust that spy. He may have been 
watching us from some place with a telescope, may 
have seen me pacing, may have guessed something. 
If we waited, he might, as the saying is in the 
vernacular, beat us to it. Have you a raincoat ? ” 

“No, but a wetting won’t hurt me.” 

“A torch?” 

“Yes.” 

“And have you a spade?” 



274 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


“Yes.” Farnham went out of the bungalow, 
and returned in a moment dripping, in his hand 
the spade. 

Carney got up briskly, emptied his pipe, and re¬ 
turned it to a pocket of his inner coat 

“Let’s be off,” he urged. 

The two men buttoned their coats securely, 
turned up the collars, rolled up the legs of their 
trousers, and pulled their caps down firmly, for 
the bungalow was shaking under fierce assaults of 
the wind. Then, Carney leading and behind him 
Farnham carrying the spade, each with electric 
torch in hand, the pair sallied out into the rain- 
drenched blackness of the night. Carney shouted 
over his shoulder against the noise of wind and 
rain: 

“ Keep an eye out for the spy! ” 

“Right!” Farnham called in answer. And to 
himself he added: “I’m thinking, my only hope 
of clearing myself is in the capture of that fel¬ 
low. Just finding the jewels, according to this 
crazy idea of the Doctor’s, would probably be 
counted another bit of evidence against me. The 
police would be sure to think that I had got him 
down here and guided him to them — afraid, after 
all, to hang onto them myself, though I had killed 
a man to get possession of them. But if they 
prove a trap to catch the spy, I may have a chance 
to get out of the mess. Anyhow, he’d have a hard 



The Secret Pool 


275 


job to explain what he’s been up to down here.” 

The two men pushed forward rapidly, flashing 
their torches from time to time to make sure that 
a clear way lay before them. The rain continued 
to fall in torrents, and Farnham was quickly 
soaked to the skin. The night, however, remained 
sultry, in spite of the storm, and the quick pace 
maintained by Carney in the lead prevented the 
young man from becoming chilled. As for the 
psychologist himself, the light silk coat kept him 
snug and dry, and he went onward blithely, un¬ 
troubled by the tempest that roared about him, his 
spirit exalted by expectation of the triumph pres¬ 
ently to be achieved. He had no doubt now as to 
the issue, sure that he would find here and there 
on the salt meadow before the shack pools of 
water left by the outflowing tide, sure that he 
would find in one of these, somewhere along the 
circumference of a circle having a radius of one 
hundred and thirty-two yards from the point on 
the wall where the icon had hung, the treasure of 
gems belonging to Vera Daniloff and so cunningly 
hidden in this remote place by the old Russian 
sailor, her loyal servant. “V } kupal’noo ” the 
Doctor repeated, with some pride over his glibness 
with the Russian phrase* “ Yes, I’ll find them in 
a pool there — if not in one pool, then in another. 
Under the stimulus of the anticipation, he quick¬ 
ened his steps, already rapid, almost to a run. 



276 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


But he checked himself suddenly at a sound out 
of the darkness behind him. He halted, turning, 
and peered back into the gloom shrouding the 
roadway. His eyes could distinguish nothing, and 
he sent the radiance of his torch over the way 
he had come. The light, however, showed only 
the bare track of rain-swept road. Farnham was 
not in sight. The Doctor realized that the burst 
of speed had outdistanced his companion, and he 
waited impatiently for his friend’s appearance. 
The sound that had reached his ears through the 
din of the element was doubtless a hail, though, 
somehow, it had sounded more like a cry of dis¬ 
tress, almost a groan. For an instant, there came 
into Carney’s mind the thought of a possibility 
that the spy had again thrust himself into the 
affair, had, in fact, ventured an attack on Farn¬ 
ham, stealing to assault him under cover of the 
darkness and the uproar of the storm. A momen¬ 
tary alarm over the fancy seized Carney. His 
hand went to the automatic in his pocket, and the 
contact of the steel reassured him. He lifted his 
voice in a loud shrill call that sounded far. As 
he strained his ears to listen, a faint reply came. 
The word or words were unintelligible, but they 
relieved the listener of further apprehension. A 
moment later, the ray of his torch showed the 
figure of a man advancing rapidly toward him, 
and in the same second he was able to recognize 



The Secret Pool 


277 


Farnham, spade on shoulder. The young man’s 
voice sounded clearly as he came close. 

“Walked into the ditch and lost a little time,” 
he announced cheerfully, blinking his eyes as the 
brilliance of Carney’s torch fell for an instant over 
his face. “ But I’ll keep up now. Lead on! ” 

Again, the two men went forward, the Doctor 
still in the lead. They reached the village street, 
and followed it to Waterfront, down which they 
turned on their way to the shore. Through this 
part of their journey, they had no need of the 
torches, since there was light enough from the arc 
lamps. Moreover, as they came to the land imme¬ 
diately bordering the Sound, and crossed the 
bridge over the inlet, they were still able to go 
safely without recourse to the torches, for now the 
storm was at its greatest violence, with incessant 
blazes of lightning, which bathed the scene in bril¬ 
liant light. To the shrieking of the wind was 
added the frequent crashing of thunderbolts. The 
clamor of the elements was so great that there 
was no effort toward conversation as Carney 
slackened his pace a little and Farnham came 
alongside. The psychologist merely pointed 
toward the shack during an instant when it was 
clearly revealed by a flare from out the riven 
clouds, and the other nodded assent to the sig¬ 
nificance of the gesture. The two men went for¬ 
ward side by side, descending from the bridge 




278 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


and turning to the right from the roadway to step 
out on the meadow. The ground here was soggy, 
not only from the rainfall, but also from the rem¬ 
nant of water that remained about the roots of the 
grass from the ebbing tide. It seemed to Carney 
that the time was indeed well chosen for his proj¬ 
ect. Now, if ever, any pools on the surface of 
the meadow would be at full. Exultation mounted 
high within him. He was all athrill with the 
spirit of adventure, which at last grew to a climax. 
The fierce strife of the storm did but serve to add 
excitement to his mood. A thought of the spy 
came to him, but he dismissed it with a smile of 
disdain. A possibility of peril in the undertaking 
failed even to interest him, so absorbed was he 
in this final testing of his hopes. He went directly 
to the closed door of the shack, and stood with his 
back against it, while his companion remained mo¬ 
tionless, close at hand, watching attentively in 
silence. For a long moment, Carney rested with¬ 
out word or movement. It was as if he paused 
in concentration of purpose that was almost a 
prayer. Then, he beckoned toward the young 
man to follow him, and strode forward, measur¬ 
ing the way pace by pace, as he had measured it 
once before, stepping high and long, awkwardly. 
He looked an absurd figure, perhaps even a 
pathetic one, as he advanced thus stiffly, his short 
body held rigidly erect, his head bent forward a 



The Secret Pool 


279 


little while he peered blinkingly through lenses 
blurred by raindrops. The companion close be¬ 
side him, however, found nothing amusing in the 
bizarre spectacle presented by the searcher. On 
the contrary, Farnham’s expression was as set and 
purposeful as that of the psychologist himself. 

Carney continued his march steadily, muttering 
the count of paces beneath his breath. He slowed 
a little at the hundred and twenty-fifth pace, for 
just in front his eager stare detected a sheen of 
water with its surface unbroken by protruding 
blades of grass. He went forward three addi¬ 
tional paces, then halted, looking down. His com¬ 
panion, too, came to a standstill, and peered in¬ 
tently. There could be no mistake as to the fact. 
A half-pace further onward lay a pool. It was 
evidently formed by a slight depression in the 
surface of the meadow, a circular hollow, some 
six feet in diameter and undoubtedly very shallow, 
with a greatest depth of hardly more than two 
feet. Carney was sure of this because he had 
come to this same spot when the meadow was 
drained dry, and he would have noted at that 
time the deeper depression. The play of lightning 
ceased abruptly, and an impenetrable darkness 
blotted out sight through a span of seconds. It 
was to the Doctor as if he had shut his eyes while 
he repeated solemnly in the manner of one chant¬ 
ing an invocation, though the words could not be 



280 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


distinguished through the thunder peals, even by 
the man who leaned forward eagerly close at his 
shoulders: 

“V> kupal’noo” 

That was it. “ Into the pool.” At last, he was 
standing on the very brink of that pool for which 
he had been searching so earnestly. “Into the 
pool,” the phrase once cried in Russian words by 
the bird now dumb, the third parrot. “ Into the 
pool,” the place indicated by those blood-marked 
words in the fourth verse of the fifth chapter of 
the Gospel according to John in Andrieff’s Book 
of the Gospels . This was the spot, this the time. 
A tremor ran throughout Carney’s tensed body. 
He slipped the torch into his pocket and turned 
his head, and cried loudly to his companion, in a 
voice that carried clearly above all the noises of 
the storm: 

“Give me the spade.” 

The psychologist took the implement as the 
other obediently held it out to him, and at once 
waded out into the water. He halted in the mid¬ 
dle of the pool, knee-deep. Forthwith, without 
hesitation, he began examination of the bottom by 
means of the spade, which he thrust downward 
vigorously, adding to the stroke by his weight 
with a foot set to the blade. The tool cut easily 
through the tangle of grass that overlay the bot¬ 
tom— too easily, since it encountered only the 



The Secret Pool 


281 


soft soil. The Doctor completed the jabbing ex¬ 
ploration over the central portion of the bottom 
without discovering any trace of the thing for 
which he sought. He advanced a little farther, 
and resumed thrusting the spade in the same or¬ 
derly fashion as before. It was at the third thrust 
of his foot against the heel of the blade that it 
encountered a new resistance. He applied his 
weight fully, but the spade would penetrate no 
farther. It was as if it had encountered a rock, 
but there had been no sound of such contact. The 
Doctor had no doubt that the obstacle thus en¬ 
countered was in very truth a wooden box—re¬ 
ceptacle for the jewels of Vera Daniloff. A sigh 
of perfect gratification issued from his lips. He 
redoubled his efforts with the spade, endeavoring 
to guide his strokes about the box in such fashion 
as to loosen it. Soon, he was able to make sure 
of an oblong shape, perhaps a foot in length by 
half that breadth and thickness. It resisted his 
efforts for a time, but presently, as he bent and 
pushed the spade underneath an edge, the box 
loosened and lifted. Another shove, and it was 
free, lying on the bottom of the pool. Carney 
tossed the spade from him to fall on the grass at 
Farnham’s feet. Then, stooping low, without 
care for the water that flowed within the openings 
of his raincoat, the psychologist thrust his arms 
into the pool to the shoulders, seized on the box, 



282 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


and lifted it, and held it clasped closely to his 
breast. The joy of victory pulsed in his blood as 
he turned and waded out of the pool. His eyes 
were fastened gloatingly on the little box, which 
he bore snuggled within his arms. It was as if 
he caressed this tangible proof, this monument to 
his achievement. He did not see the sudden swift 
and silent movement of the other man, did not 
see the spade swung aloft, then down. The blade 
of the shovel struck squarely on his head, and he 
went down to unconsciousness like a polled ox. 



CHAPTER XXVI 

THE FIGHT IN THE STORM 

I T WAS fortunate for the psychologist that the 
blow was made by the flat of the shovel, 
rather than by the edge. The result was that he 
escaped a serious wound, though momentarily 
stunned. He was unconscious as he sprawled to 
the ground, and the precious box fell from his 
relaxed arms, to lie on the grass beside him. Yet, 
the failure of consciousness was only of a most 
transitory sort. A flicker of returning intelligence 
came in almost the same second, so that, dazedly, 
his eyes noted the box on the ground just before 
his eyes, noted, too, that it was swiftly seized by 
two hands and lifted out of his sight. Then, 
again, everything was black for a little, though 
the lightning still flared incessantly. But the in¬ 
terval was very brief; it was a matter merely of 
seconds before vision and thought were restored. 

By a tremendous effort, Carney lifted his head 
slightly, and gazed about him. The thick lenses 
remained in position before his eyes, so that he 
was able to see distinctly enough, notwithstanding 
the fact that the confusion of his mind made it 
difficult to interpret the scene intelligently. Pres- 
283 


284 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ently, however, his brain functioned accurately, 
and he became aware that Farnham was just mov¬ 
ing off, without a backward glance. The box, too, 
was visible, tucked under the man’s left arm. The 
psychologist noted also, without interest, that the 
spade had been cast aside; it was lying on the 
ground immediately in front of him. Rage flooded 
Carney as full understanding came to him concern¬ 
ing the monstrous thing that had occurred. The 
event was incredible; nevertheless, it was true. In 
this moment of realization, the psychologist was 
compelled to readjust violently all his previous 
ideas as to the young man whom he had esteemed 
and befriended, whom he had trusted implicitly. 
There was no room for doubt. Farnham, his 
companion in this adventure, had without warning 
struck him down, the fellow was even now treach¬ 
erously making off with the recovered jewels of 
Vera Daniloff. The act was dastardly. It offered 
substantial proof that the architect was a criminal, 
that the police were justified in charging him with 
the murder of Andrieff. It was obvious that he 
had slain the old sailor in order to gain possession 
of the gems; that, then, having failed to find the 
jewels, he had cunningly played the hypocrite, so 
that his dupe should lead him to the hiding place. 
His fury over being thus cozened served as a stim¬ 
ulant to the Doctor’s strength. He struggled up 
until he was crouched on all fours. The effort 



The Fight in the Storm 


285 


made him dizzy, and he was obliged to wait impa¬ 
tiently for the dizziness to pass. At last, he 
exerted himself again, and managed somehow to 
get on his feet and to stand swaying drunkenly. 
His rage quickened as he saw Farnham at some 
distance, hurrying across the meadow toward the 
roadway. Fear lest the fellow escape spurred him 
to action. A new strength flowed into him to serve 
his necessity. Instinctively, he stooped and picked 
up the spade, with a vague idea that he in turn 
might use it as a weapon. But the thought re¬ 
called to mind the automatic in his coat pocket. 
He swung the spade over his left shoulder, while 
his right hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, 
and drew out the pistol. Then he went shambling 
unsteadily across the meadow in the wake of his 
enemy. 

Now, the lightning lessened by degrees. The 
intervals of darkness between the flashes were 
more frequent, of longer duration. Hardly had 
the psychologist begun his pursuit when the elec¬ 
tric flames died, and blackness fell. Carney halted 
involuntarily, and stood peering futilely before 
him, awaiting a renewal of the lightning. It came 
quickly, and he saw Farnham already close to the 
road. At sight of his quarry there, the Doctor 
set forward again, running more nimbly. Dark¬ 
ness came a second time, but he kept on without 
lessening his speed. The fellow must not escape! 



286 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


A little more, and he floundered to his knees, let¬ 
ting go the spade in his fall. He had reached the 
slight embankment that raised the roadway above 
the encroachment of the tide. The fall had done 
no more than jar him. He groped for the spade, 
found it, and scrambled to his feet. A brilliant 
flash lighted the scene. What he saw held the 
psychologist motionless at the roadside. 

The bridge over the inlet was no more than fifty 
yards distant from where Carney stood. On it 
showed the figure of a man running. The vivid¬ 
ness of the light allowed a clear view, and Carney 
gaped in amazement as he looked. He recognized 
Farnham in this man advancing swiftly over the 
bridge toward him. He could not be mistaken in 
face and figure of this one whom he had so re¬ 
cently counted as friend. Yet, how could the 
fellow have come there within that fleeting period 
of darkness and why was he returning in such 
haste? And, too, there was now a great smear 
of blood over the right temple and cheek. Carney 
marveled the more, for he could swear that Farn- 
ham’s face, as he had seen it when he lay crumpled 
on the grass, had shown no trace of injury. How 
had the wound chanced within those mysterious 
seconds of darkness? The medley of thoughts 
whirled through the Doctor’s brain in a twinkling. 
They whirled anew, more maddeningly, as he 
blinked, then shifted his gaze to take in an object 



The Fight in the Storm 


287 


closer at hand, which somehow seemed to demand 
his attention. He saw, on the opposite side of 
the roadway the form of a man, standing motion¬ 
less, hardly a rod beyond him. The face of the 
man was turned toward the bridge and the run¬ 
ner. The lightning continued, and the countenance 
was clearly revealed to the psychologist. The lit¬ 
tle man crouched instinctively within the shelter 
of the embankment, and stared before him in a 
dismay of pitiful bewilderment. He was near 
to whimpering as he asked himself if he were 
indeed going mad. For the man here at hand 
was Farnham. He could not doubt the evidence 
of his eyes. And that other man there, coming 
closer so swiftly, that, too, was Farnham. There 
could be no doubt as to the fellow’s identity. 
There could be no doubt as to the identity of 
either. The psychologist groaned helplessly. He 
must, in very truth, be crazed. There were two 
of Farnham, two present before his eyes, face to 
face, about to meet. Carney shook his head as 
if to clear one or the other of the men from his 
vision. He felt that the blow of the spade had 
somehow jumbled his wits, had left him insane. 
He was in a stupor of astonishment that held him 
paralyzed. For the moment, he had no further 
thought of vengeance against his assailant, al¬ 
though the fellow stood there almost within reach, 
with the box of gems under his arm. But was it? 



288 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


The Doctor looked closely, and his confusion in¬ 
creased as he saw that the box had vanished. His 
gaze went to the other Farnham. There was no 
box under either arm of the runner. 

For a few seconds, the scene held thus. Then, 
there came a movement of the right hand by the 
man near Carney. A report sounded. The run¬ 
ner swerved, and leaped to the grass of the 
meadow. He was on the side of the roadway 
opposite that of the other man, and so sheltered 
from another shot, although still visible as he 
crouched down to Carney. The lightning died 
out, and, when he looked again at the road as 
another flash came, the Doctor saw that the other 
Farnham had vanished. He guessed that the 
fellow also, in his turn, was crouching behind the 
embankment on the opposite side of the road. The 
black came again, and a stab of fire darted over 
the road, followed by a report. It was a return 
shot from the man on Carney’s side of the road. 
The Doctor broke his habit of a lifetime and 
cursed softly to himself. There were two Farn- 
hams, and they were deadly foes, and they were 
fighting a duel in the dark and the storm. And he 
himself was hopelessly mad. 

Carney’s rage over the attack on him and the 
theft of the jewels was by no means lessened, but it 
was held in check for the moment by the amazing 
situation that had developed. His dominant 



The Fight in the Storm 


289 


emotion now was of wonder, of curiosity as to the 
significance of this mysterious doubling of identi¬ 
ties by the two men battling yonder, if they were 
not indeed delusions of his own overwrought 
brain. It did not occur to him to take an active 
part in the conflict; he was sufficiently absorbed 
in the passive role of spectator. He fretted 
against the brief periods when the lightning failed 
and darkness shut out all the scene from his sight, 
save as a leaping flame of fire from an automatic 
signaled the strife. The jets of fire showed now 
here, now there, along the roadway. It was evi¬ 
dent that the combatants were dodging back and 
forth on either side of the roadway as a rampart, 
in the hope thus by quick changes of position to 
baffle any attempt at accurate aim. Then, at last, 
the blackness vanished before a dazzling burst of 
radiance from the canopy of clouds. The Doctor 
saw the man from the near side of the road 
straighten and leap up the embankment, to cross 
the highway, and disappear beyond it. A shot 
sounded, followed by a dull thud. The psychol¬ 
ogist guessed that the sound was made by the 
impact of a fallen body on the earth of the 
meadow, that the two men had come to gripes. 
He fancied that he could hear the panting breath 
of the fighters as they strained together in a des¬ 
perate clutch. Curiosity could not be denied. Car¬ 
ney advanced cautiously along the road toward the 



290 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


point where the two men were hidden. The light¬ 
ning faded out, but he went onward intrepidly, 
driven by the violence of his longing to understand 
this latest and most astounding puzzle. A stray 
bullet might reach him, but he gave no heed to 
the risk. He no longer could endure the suspense 
of this strange conflict, this weird struggle between 
two enemies who seemed to possess but a single 
identity between them. So, in a matter of seconds, 
he reached a point immediately above the place 
where the fight was being carried on. Carney 
halted, striving in vain to penetrate the murk with 
eagerly peering eyes, and listening. It required 
no help of the imagination now to hear the gasps 
and grunts of the two straining so fiercely. The 
heavens burned again, and Carney saw plainly the 
two forms closely intertwined in convulsive grap¬ 
ple. The light was full now, and revealed every 
detail plainly. The psychologist could not see the 
face of the man who was uppermost, nor had he 
eyes for it. His whole attention was concentrated 
on the countenance of the man who lay under¬ 
neath. That visage was frightfully distorted by 
spasms of hate and terror, as the man struggled 
frenziedly, but without avail, to free himself 
from his enemy’s clutch. Carney stared down at 
the contorted face in horror, and in an amaze¬ 
ment beyond anything in his experience hitherto. 
For he recognized the face of the man writhing 



The Fight in the Storm 


291 


there so frantically; he recognized it with a feeling 
akin to terror over the mystery of its presence 
there, with loathing over its evil reality. It was 
no longer the face of Farnham. It was the face 
of the man to whom his attention had once been 
attracted in the elevated train, the face of that 
man whom he had believed to be a murderer. 
Now, staring down at those twisted features with 
the rolling, blazing eyes, that expression of min¬ 
gled ferocity and fear, made more ghastly by the 
blue quivering glare of the lightning, Carney be¬ 
lieved again, with absolute conviction. He knew 
that here at last he had found the assassin of 
Andrieff. 



CHAPTER XXVII 

THE ARM OF THE LAW 


T HE SHOCK of his discovery held Doctor 
Carney rigid and motionless for a full min¬ 
ute, while the combatants maintained their strain¬ 
ing embrace through alternate light and darkness 
as the lightning played. Presently, however, he 
shook off the lethargy, and, as a brilliant flare 
came, he plunged down the embankment with a 
shrill cry of triumph. He leaped alongside the 
fighting men, fell to his knees, and clutched with 
both hands at the flailing right arm of the man 
underneath. He gripped it firmly, and with his 
weight upon it managed to hold it fast, out¬ 
stretched on the ground. Mechanically, his con¬ 
sciousness registered the thought that the other 
man must be the true Farnham. But he did not 
seek to verify the idea: his sole concern was to 
help in the mastering of the assassin, to make 
sure of the fellow’s capture. The muscles of the 
arm he held swelled in repeated efforts to win free, 
and the little man had much ado to retain his 
grasp, but he hung on doggedly with indomitable 
purpose that his prisoner should not escape. 
Throughout, his gaze went unwaveringly to the 
292 


The Arm of the Law 


293 


convulsed face that he had recognized. 'Even in 
the intervals of darkness, it seemed to him that 
he still saw it with horrible distinctness. 

In a lull of the storm, which was now lessening, 
there sounded the noise of running feet as some¬ 
one crossed the bridge over the inlet. The psy¬ 
chologist gave no heed. But, a moment later, he 
was startled into attention when a sudden blinding 
light, white and unflickering, picked out the strug¬ 
gling group. Carney realized that this radiance 
was unlike the glare from the storm. He turned 
his head for a glance over his shoulder, and looked 
into the dazzling ray of an electric torch held by 
some one standing invisible on the edge of the 
embankment. A gruff voice called out sharply: 

“Get him, boys — he’s underneath. Never 
mind the little man. Pull Farnham off.” 

The light of the torch was held in position 
steadily while these orders were obeyed. Carney, 
though he endeavored to retain his grip on the 
arm, was ruthlessly brushed aside as two stalwart 
forms closed in on the struggling trio. As he got 
to his feet, fairly snarling in his wrath, he heard 
a click, which he knew instinctively to be the 
snapping of a handcuff. He looked, and perceived 
that the man he desired was indeed a prisoner; 
now safely manacled in charge of a burly guard. 
Another stalwart individual had seized the upper¬ 
most of the two fighting men, whom he yanked 



294 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


upright, and then restrained from a renewed at¬ 
tack. The prisoner, too, got to his feet, roughly 
assisted by his guard. The man in the road hold¬ 
ing the torch snapped another command: 

“ Frisk ’em. Never mind the Doctor.” 

A touch of mortification over being thus con¬ 
temptuously ignored was forgotten by the psychol¬ 
ogist as he recognized the voice. It was that of 
Maxwell. Carney rejoiced in the timely presence 
of the competent official and friend—a presence 
totally unlooked for, almost as astonishing as the 
other events of the night. The Doctor scrambled 
up the embankment, stammering excitedly as he 
went: 

“It’s the man of the elevated train—the mur¬ 
derer, Andrieff’s assassin.” 

“ Maybe it is,” Maxwell replied coolly. “Any¬ 
how, whoever he is and whatever he’s done, I’ve 
got him.” 

There was further talk, in which Famham 
joined, but the prisoner maintained a sullen silence. 
The architect explained briefly that soon after 
the departure from the bungalow, he had been 
struck down by a heavy blow on the head. He 
had remained unconscious for a time, but had 
finally regained his senses, and his first clear 
thought had been of danger to Carney, for he 
believed that the attack on him had been made 
by the unknown spy. He had, therefore, gone 



The r Arm of the Law 


295 


on as quickly as he could, and had just reached 
the bridge when he saw in a flash of the lightning 
the Doctor struck down at the edge of the pool. 
Then he had run forward to attack in his turn. 

Understanding came to Carney. He spoke 
slowly, considering carefully: 

“So, it seems that this murderer fooled me 
completely. He knocked out Farnham, and then 
took Farnham’s place, and came on down here 
with me, and I never knew the difference. I just 
led him straight to what he wanted, to what he 
couldn’t find for himself. Afterward, he only 
had to hit me over the head with the spade, and 
make off. His one mistake was he didn’t strike 
Farnham quite hard enough.” 

“ Oh, we’d have nabbed him anyhow,” Maxwell 
interrupted complacently. 

“To think,” the Doctor continued musingly, 
“that I never even suspected the fellow wasn’t 
Farnham! Why, I saw him face to face by the 
lightning, and I never guessed the fraud. I even 
recognized his voice. Let’s have a look at him.” 

The rain had ceased now, and glimpses of clear 
sky showed between the clouds, but the gloom of 
the night was deep. Maxwell obediently turned 
the light of his torch on the prisoner, who faced 
it unflinchingly, his expression stolid. 

“No wonder he fooled me,” the psychologist 
muttered, dumfounded. For, once again, it 



296 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


seemed to him that he was looking into the face 
of Farnham. The likeness to the man on the 
elevated train had been blotted out in the present] 
quietude of the expression. It ^as only under 
the torment of emotion that the assassin revealed 
himself. 

“It’s a good makeup,” Maxwell admitted. 
“Besides, he’s had practice. He rigged himself 
up to look like Farnham the day he went to kill 
Andrieff. He was the one the woman saw in the 
upper hall of the house, and he’s the one that 
Spoke to Miss Daniloff at the entrance, and told 
her to go back home, that Andrieff wasn’t in his 
room upstairs. The old fellow wasn’t, but his 
dead body was. Yes, this chap is a good actor. 
He’s a bad actor, too.” Maxwell chuckled over 
his little jest with the slang phrase. 

Both Carney and Farnham were amazed by this 
revelation, so casually uttered by the deputy com¬ 
missioner. 

“But who is he?” the Doctor demanded, still 
at a loss to understand fully. 

“You’ll know him fast enough,” Maxwell de¬ 
clared, “when his ears stick out again, and the 
stuffing is taken from inside his cheeks, and his 
face is cleaned to show his own dark skin and 
when he’s in clothes that are not a copy of Farn- 
ham’s, and when he uses his natural voice.” 

Farnham was shrewder in penetrating the dis- 



The Arm of the Law 


297 


guise. Looking at the man, he spoke abruptly: 

“It’s Boris Goshkoff.” 

The Doctor uttered an exclamation of wonder 
as conviction of the truth came to him. 

“Why did he do it?” Farnham questioned. 
Curiosity almost overcame anger at the deception 
of which he had been the victim. 

“He had two reasons,” Maxwell explained. 
“ In the first place, he planned to divert all sus¬ 
picion of the murder from him to you, and, in 
the second place, thus incidentally to get you out 
of the way, for he feared you as a rival in the 
affections of Miss Daniloff.” 

Farnham’s face whitened with rage, but by a 
stern effort of will he remained motionless and 
silent, though his impulse, like a flame, was to hurl 
himself again on the man who had so wantonly 
plotted this outrage against him — and her. For 
distraction, rather than from any care as to his 
appearance, he stepped aside to the shallows of 
the inlet, and there with his handkerchief dipped 
in the water made shift to cleanse his face of the 
dried blood that had trickled down from the 
slight abrasion of his scalp. By the time he re¬ 
turned to the group in the road, he had regained 
his poise, at least outwardly. 

“Now, boys, let’s get back to the village with 
him,” Maxwell directed his aides. The scattering 
clouds had opened, and the moonlight showed the 



298 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


way clearly enough. The two guards advanced 
toward the bridge obediently, with their passive 
prisoner between them. Maxwell and Farnham 
followed side by side. “But where’s Carney?” 
the deputy commissioner demanded suddenly. 

“Right here,” the Doctor’s voice answered 
from a little way in the rear. He had slipped back 
along the road a few moments earlier, and as he 
drew up to the others, he was fumbling with a 
hand inside the breast of his raincoat. But he 
vouchsafed no explanation. In front of the hotel, 
the party halted, and Maxwell issued his instruc¬ 
tions as to the disposal of the prisoner for the 
night in the village-lockup. 

“Of course,” Maxwell said, grinning, “I have 
no authority in this state, but there will be no 
trouble about that, and I have an idea that Gosh- 
koff will waive extradition. How about it?” 

The Russian spoke for the first time: 

“Yes. I have powerful friends in New York.” 

“You’ll need all of ’em,” was the grim retort, 
“ to keep you out of the chair. Off with him! ” 
he added to his subordinates. Then, accompanied 
by Farnham and Carney, he turned to enter the 
hotel. 

At the same moment, the door was swung 
violently open from within. There came a swirl 
of garments, a burst of soft staccato tones, and 
Vera Daniloff was lying on Farnham’s breast, her 



The 'Arm of the Law 


299 


arms clasped closely about his neck, her lips raised 
expectantly for the kiss, which was not delayed. 
The young man’s astonishment was as nothing to 
his ardor as a lover. He held her in a firm 
embrace that thrilled them both to rapture. But 
the Doctor’s eyes were goggling as he beheld the 
advent of the girl. It was the capping of the 
climax among the miracles of this night. Pres¬ 
ently, however, Vera drew away, and, blushing in 
a pretty confusion, greeted the psychologist, and 
kissed his cheek. 

“ I have prepared a feast,” she said to the three 
of them. “ I was listening at the door before I 
came out. I know you have him. It is well. And 
I have arranged with the hotel-keeper for a little 
supper by ourselves in the dining-room — a lawful 
beer, and the national dish, you know.” 

“ She would come along with me,” Maxwell ex¬ 
plained with a benignant smile. “ But what is this 
national dish?” 

“ Those hot dogs, the food of your red men,” 
the girl explained serenely. “ Come.” She led 
the way into the hotel and on into the dining-room, 
where a table was already prepared for them. 

There was, in truth, little feasting but much by 
way of explanation. It was evident from the out¬ 
set that the lovers had plighted troth without a 
word being spoken. There was no need of ex¬ 
planation between these two. But there were 



300 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


other things less easily understood. Maxwell 
cleared up the mystery of his own appearance on 
the scene. His men in New York had arrested 
an intimate associate of Goshkoff, who had not 
hesitated to incriminate the actor in order to gain 
favor for himself. From this source, it was 
learned that Goshkoff had for some time been on 
the track of Andrieff and the jewels. Then, Vera 
Daniloff had gone to the deputy commissioner in 
a desperate effort to relieve her lover from a sus¬ 
picion that she believed to be unjust. Goshkoff’s 
statements to her had roused in her an instinctive 
belief in his guilt, and she strove to impress this 
same conviction on the police official. Maxwell, 
through his detectives, already knew of the archi¬ 
tect’s retreat to Clinton, and he was equally well 
informed when both Carney and Goshkoff betook 
themselves to the same neighborhood. He had, 
in consequence, acceded to Vera’s desire that he 
should act at once, and the two of them, accom¬ 
panied by a pair of detectives, had journeyed to 
the village that day, arriving in the early evening. 
With his two men, he had set out through the 
storm in quest of the absent Doctor. The three 
had heard shots from the direction of the shore 
and had hurried to investigate. 

“The rest you know,” Maxwell concluded. 
“Now, suppose you tell me just what occurred 
down there.” His request was made to Carney, 



The Arm of the Law 


301 


since the lovers had little attention for aught save 
each other. 

The psychologist tersely narrated his part in 
the events of the night. As he made an end, 
Maxwell pursed his lips and whistled. 

“You really found that jewelry,” he exclaimed 
at last, staring at the little man in frank admira¬ 
tion. “Now, doesn’t that beat the devil!” 

“It certainly does,” the Doctor agreed, with 
great cheerfulness. “ But the devil beat me first 
over the head with a shovel, and almost got away 
with it.” 

“So,” continued Maxwell musingly, “that loot 
was what you chased down here after. I supposed 
all the time that Goshkoff had it. What made you 
suspect anything different, Doctor?” 

It was then that Carney related pridefully the 
whole story of what he had gathered from the 
parrots and from Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels, 
which had led at last to the finding of the treas¬ 
ure in the pool on the salt meadow. And through¬ 
out the narrative, the police official listened with 
flattering attention. 

“Now, just think of that! ” he exclaimed when 
the psychologist paused. “ I heard those birds 
yelling their fool heads off, and all I got from it 
was an ear ache. Well, well! I’ve been looking 
after this case so as to save you from being both¬ 
ered too much, Doctor, and I sure have my re- 



302 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ward. We’d never have got either the murderer 
or the jewelry, I’m thinking, if it hadn’t been for 
your butting in. I don’t know how you do it, but 
you’re a corker! 

“But where in thunder is that jewelry?” Max¬ 
well added abruptly. “ Somewhere down on the 
shore, lost during the scrap. We must get busy 
and find it.” 

“No,” the Doctor asserted, and his voice had 
a tone of distinct triumph. “I went back for 
it.” He reached under his raincoat, which he 
had adjusted carefully on a chair close by, and 
brought forth the box. Maxwell cleared a space 
in the center of the table, and there the Doctor 
placed the plain wooden box, still soaked from 
the waves of the sea and the rain, and still with 
fragments of earth clinging to it here and there. 
The attention of the lovers had been at last ar¬ 
rested, and they stared, fascinated. 

The Russian girl in thus accompanying Max¬ 
well had been influenced only by anxiety in her 
lover’s behalf; she had had no thought as to a 
possible recovery of her fortune. She had listened 
astounded to the tale so glibly related by the 
little Doctor, and she was now brimming with de¬ 
light over the restoration of her heritage. Yet, 
her feeling in this matter was less by far than it 
must have been had it not been for that greater 
gladness just attained by love’s triumph. 



The T Arm of the Law 


303 


Farnham, too, was pleasurably excited. 

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “It’s the 
treasure! I’d forgotten all about it.” 

“Natural enough,” was Maxwell’s comment 
“You had plenty to keep your interest, what with 
fighting Goshkoff, and getting suddenly acquitted 
of a murder charge — not to mention Miss Dan- 
iloff here.” He smiled sympathetically. 

“It is your right to open it,” Carney said, 
turning to Yera with a benignant expression. “ I 
am the fairy godfather, though I may not look it, 
and I bring your marriage portion to the betrothal 
feast.” He had no doubt as to the contents of 
the box although another might have reflected 
that his find might be no more than some worth¬ 
less thing cast away and forgotten. “Now!” he 
commanded. 

The girl, her eyes sparkling, leaned forward 
obediently, and the beautiful fingers pushed free 
the hook that served as a fastening. She raised 
the lid, and took out a large packet in a cover of 
oiled silk, about which a cord had been elaborately 
knotted. Maxwell proffered a knife, and she sev¬ 
ered the strings. The folds of cloth were spread 
out. Then, of a sudden, there was revealed the 
actuality of the treasure itself. It was already 
familiar to the owner of it, but the three men 
gazed in a curiosity tinged with awe at sight of 
such magnificence. For the house of Daniloff was 




304 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


ancient, and the men of the race had loved rich 
jewels, had sought them eagerly, had purchased 
them prodigally. The result was here in this 
great heap of gems in settings of gold. The glit¬ 
tering store, splendid under the electric light, 
showed the flashing prismed beauty of diamonds, 
the still green radiance of emeralds, the blue black 
of sapphires, the changing flames of opals, the 
soft shimmer of pearls from the depths of oriental 
seas, the vivid loveliness of rubies red as blood 
freshly flowing, the lusters of other stones hardly 
less precious, equally beautiful. It was Vera who 
broke the silence, raising her eyes from a priceless 
bracelet set all about with those rubies red as 
blood. 

“ It was for these that he killed, that he dipped 
his hands in blood.” The softly spoken words 
were tremulous at thought of the crime of Boris 
Goshkoff. 

“ It is a noble dowry,” the Doctor declared, and 
his tone was reverent. He enjoyed a new sense 
of his own importance as he contemplated the 
riches spread before him, for he realized that 
the recovery of them had been his achievement. 

“You sure did deliver the goods,” Maxwell 
made compliment. 

Vera took the words literally, and amended 
them. 

“Yes, and he delivered the bad as well, since 



The Arm of the Law 


305 


that dreadful person is now in jail.” 

The voice of the hotel-keeper interrupted them. 
The man was standing at a little distance, his 
eyes popping as he regarded the heaped mass of 
gold and gems. 

“The management is not responsible,” he 
warned, “for gewgaws and dewdabs left lying 
around promiscuous.” 

“We’ll do them up, and seal them, and have 
you put them in your safe for the night,” Maxwell 
promised, with a glance toward the girl, who 
nodded assent. “ But I do like to look at them,” 
he added a little sheepishly, as the wondering 
landlord withdrew from the room. He beamed 
on Carney. “You certainly did some mighty fine 
work in deduction, Doctor.” 

The psychologist shook his head doubtfully. 

“ I intend,” he explained, his manner becoming 
didactic, “to devote myself for some time to a 
study of my own mental processes in this case. 
Did I get my ideas by reasoning from observed 
facts, or did those ideas just come to me? The 
difficulty is in telling the source. Did my trained 
mind reason so swiftly that I was unaware of the 
action save in the resulting thought ? Did I then 
afterward repeat slowly and laboriously and con¬ 
sciously that same reasoning which had already 
produced the thought I was seeking to justify by 
logic? Or did the ideas come from intangible 



306 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


sources? It may be that I have developed a 
psychic sensitiveness. In my next book, I shall go 
into the whole matter with thoroughness.” 

Maxwell, who did not in the least understand 
what the Doctor was talking about, nodded 
heavily. 

“Anyhow, you’re a wonder 1” He spoke with 
finality, and both Vera Daniloff and Farnham ap¬ 
plauded the sentiment. 

The girl was radiant again, dimpling and smil¬ 
ing. She made a gesture toward her lover, from 
whose face happiness had wiped out the lines of 
suffering. 

“I am so grateful to you, dear Doctor,” she 
said, “ for giving Edward my message. He has 
not reproached me because I failed to trust him 
just at first.” 

“Your message?” the psychologist repeated, 
puzzled. 

“Yes. You told him when you came here just 
as I had asked you to that I was so anxious about 
him, that I should worry constantly until his re¬ 
turn to me. Because you told him that, Edward 
knew that I did trust him and believe in him after 
all.” 

“I did indeed,” Farnham agreed, but his eyes 
were turned accusingly on Carney, who avoided 
the gaze. 

“ I can explain it to him afterward,” the psy- 



The Arm of the Law 


307 


chologist reflected, “if only he keeps quiet now.” 
He was conscience-stricken over the error by 
which he had misjudged the girl. “ She did say, 
‘I should worry’—just like that—and, for once, 
it wasn’t slang. The dear child really meant it.” 

Then, to divert attention toward a safer topic, 
the psychologist made an announcement, apropos 
of nothing at all: 

“As soon as I get back to the city, I must visit 
my physician.” 

“Nonsense!” Farnham exclaimed while Max¬ 
well, too, snorted indignantly. “Why you’re the 
picture of health, Doctor. You’re a new man from 
what you were the first time I saw you.” 

“ That’s it exactly,” Carney agreed. “ I never 
was so well in my life. But that time when I met 
you and Vera in Andrieff’s room, I had just come 
from my physician. I went to him because I was 
a sick man, all out of kilter. He prescribed for 
me. I have done exactly what he told me not to 
do. I am in perfect health from not following 
his advice. I wish to exhibit myself to him, to tell 
him the facts, and — er—rub it in, you know.” 
He smiled whimsically, and the others smiled with 
him. 

“I have a happy thought,” Vera exclaimed 
presently. “ I shall reward you by a gift.” The 
eyes of the psychologist went to the treasure on 
the table, and he shook his head. He could ac- 



308 The Mystery of the Third Parrot 


cept no reward for service that had been only a 
delight. 

“ But you must,” the girl persisted. “ I shall 
give you the three parrots that taught you so won¬ 
derfully the secret of the mystery.” 

But Carney shook his head more violently than 
before, and now he voiced his objection bluntly: 

“The voices of parrots have always been of¬ 
fensive to me. I should go mad with those two 
creatures squawking in my ears.” 

Vera’s face fell, then brightened again. 

“But the third parrot — it is dumb.” 

It was true. That third parrot could never tor¬ 
ture his ears by strident croakings. And, in truth, 
that unfortunate bird had been the beginning and 
the ending of the mystery. The sight of it there 
on the window-ledge had first guided him to the 
place of crime. Its unuttered phrase, interpreted 
by the blood-marked words in Andrieff’s Book of 
the Gospels, had led him this very night into that 
pool of water on the salt meadow wherein he had 
retrieved the treasure now at last safely set before 
the owner of it. 

“V* kupal’noo,” he murmured to himself, “into 
the pool. 

“ I thank you, Miss Daniloff,” he said aloud a 
moment later, and his manner carried a touch of 
formality. “I should like to keep for my own 
Andrieff’s Book of the Gospels, which to me was 



The Arm of the Law 


309 


as the voice of the dumb, and I shall be very glad 
to accept your gift, to have for my very own, the 
third parrot.’* 





AUG 6 1924 

































































































































